UNIVERSITY  OF 
AT    LOS  i 


TRENCH  BALLADS 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 


TRENCH  BALLADS 

AND   OTHER   VERSES 


BY 
ERWIN  CLARKSON  GARRETT 

Author  of  "Army  Ballads  and  Other  Verses" 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER, 

the  late  Captain  George  L.  Garrett,  of  the  Union 
Army,  during  the  Civil  War 

\  AND  TO 

MY  MOTHER, 

k\  X  whose  lifelong  devotion,  unselfishness,  tenderness 

and  loyalty  to  me,  as  to  all  her  family  and 
friends,  make  this  dedication  a  pleas 
ure  and  a  joy  only  commensurate 
with  my  thought  of  her. 


PREFACE 

I  have  divided  this  book  into  three  distinct  parts. 
Part  I,  Trench  Ballads,  consists  of  forty  American  sol 
dier  poems  of  America's  participation  in  the  AVorld 
War,  1917-19,  based  entirely  on  actual  facts  and  in 
cidents,  and  almost  exclusively  on  my  own  personal 
experiences  and  observations,  when  a  private  in  Com 
pany  G,  16th  Infantry,  First  Division,  of  the  Ameri 
can  Expeditionary  Forces  in  France.  Part  II,  Pre 
war  Poems,  consists  of  three  sets  of  verses  written  just 
before  the  active  entry  of  America  in  the  war,  and 
appertaining  to,  but  not  an  integral  part  of,  it,  and 
therefore  grouped  separately.  Part  III,  Other  Poems, 
contains  those  of  a  general  and  non-military  character. 

It  is  highly  desirable  the  ''Notes"  at  the  end  of 
this  volume  .should  be  consulted,  and  that  it  be  rea 
lized  that  with  few  exceptions,  all  these  Trench 
Ballads  were  written  in  France,  many  scribbled  on  odd 
pieces  of  paper  or  on  old  envelopes  in  the  trenches 
themselves,  and  consequently,  when  present  locality 
is  intimated,  it  is  always  France,  that  is  to  say, 
from  the  standpoint  that  I  am  speaking  in  and  from 
the  seat  of  operations.  For  example,  when  I  use  the 
term  "over  here,"  it  really  means  what  the  people 
at  home  in  America  would  call ' '  over  there. ' '  Hyper 
bole  or  little  characteristic  anecdotes  that  really  never 
occurred,  except  in  the  brain  of  an  author,  I  have  ab- 


solutely  shunned,  and  have  endeavored  to  adhere 
strictly  to  "the  truth,  the  whole  truth  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,"  and  to  set  forth  the  vicissitudes;  the 
dangers,  joys  and  tribulations  of  the  army  man,  and 
especially  the  man  in  the  ranks,  and  more  especially 
the  man  in  the  ranks  of  the  Infantry,  as  these  latter 
formed  the  actual  front-line  or  combat  troops  that  bore 
the  brunt  in  this  greatest  of  all  wars. 

Absolute  continuity  or  sequence  would  seem  super 
fluous,  but  it  will  be  observed  that  I  have  endeavored 
to  maintain  it  to  a  certain  extent,  i.e.,  by  gradually 
leading  from  a  number  of  military  verses,  without  any 
strict  inter-relation,  to  the  day  of  being  wounded, 
then  on  to  several  poems  concerning  the  military 
hospital,  and  finally  bringing  the  Trench  Ballads  to 
a  close  with  those  having  to  do  with  the  returning 
home  of  the  soldier. 

My  previous  book,  "Army  Ballads  and  Other 
Verses,"  is  the  result  of  my  experiences  when  serving 
as  a  private  in  Companies  "L"  and  "G,"  23rd  In 
fantry  and  Troop  "I,"  5th  Cavalry  (Regulars),  dur 
ing  the  Philippine  Insurrection  of  1899-1902,  and  if 
"Army  Ballads  and  Other  Verses"  is  taken  in  con 
junction  with  this  volume,  it  is  my  hope  together  they 
may  prove  a  fairly  comprehensive  anthology  of  the 
American  soldier  of  recent  times. 

E.  C.  G. 
Philadelphia, 
November  1st,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I— TRENCH  BALLADS 

Trenches 17 

Barb-Wire  Posts 19 

Feet 21 

Tour  Gas-Mask 22 

Slum  and  Beef  Stew 23 

Shell-Fire 25 

Mr.  Fly 27 

The  Salvation  Army  with  the  A.  E.  F.   .      .      .29 

Shell-Holes 30 

Food 33 

Over  the  Top 36 

The  Battle  Mother 38 

Song  of  the  Volunteers  of  1917 40 

0.  D 42 

Artillery  Registering 44 

Reciprocity 46 

Trucks 48 

Mademoiselle 51 

The  First  Division 53 

Little  Gold  Chevrons  on  My  Cuffs 55 

A  Trip-Wire 56 

The  Favorite  Song 57 

Captain  Blankburg 59 

Little  War  Mothers 62 

Interrupted  Chow 63 


8.0.  8 67 

The  Gas-Proof  Mule 68 

Infantry  of  the  World  War 71 

The  Flowers  of  France 73 

A   First-Class   Private 74 

Birds  of  Battle 76 

Only  for  You 77 

Cooties 78 

Old  Fusee 80 

The  Colors  of  Blighty 82 

When  Nurse  Comes  in 84 

Charlie  Chaplin  in  Blighty 85 

Two   Worlds 87 

Embarkation  Home 89 

The  Statue  of  Liberty 91 

PART  II— PRE-WAR  POEMS 

To  France— 1917 95 

The  Pacifist 97 

Battle  Hymn  of  '17 100 

PART  III— OTHER  VERSES 

My  Sapphire 105 

The  Twins 107 

On  Sending  My  Book  to  an  English  Friend  .      .  108 

Immortal  Keats 109 

To  a  Little  Girl Ill 

God 113 

The  Golden  Day 117 

Notes   .  121 


MY  COMRADES  IN  THE  RANKS. 

You  chose  no  easy  Service, 

No  safe  job,  friends  of  mine, 
But  the  mud  of  the  shell-torn,  trenches 

And  the  foremost  battle-line. 
No  camouflage  patriotism — 

Though  you  had  from  a  wealth  to  choose 
But  the  ivicked  work  of  No  Man's  Land, 

Filling  a  man's-size  shoes. 

You  didn't  say  you  wouldn't  play 

If  you  got  no  shoulder  bars — 
You  even  placed  your  Country 

Above  a  general's  stars: 
For  shocking,  very  shocking, 

You  didn't  give  a  damn 
About  your  "social  status," 

When  you  fought  for  Uncle  Sam. 

Friends  of  mine,  friends  of  mine, 

I've  shared  your  toil  and  tears — 
Your  dangers  and  your  little  woes, 

When  days  ivere  'turned  to  years. 
I  may  not  make  them  understand 

The  things  that  you  have  done, 
But  God  bless  you  and  God  keep  you — 

Every  blessed  mother's  son. 


PART  I. 
TRENCH  BALLADS, 


TRENCHES. 

TRENCHES  dripping,  wet  and  cold- 
Trenches  hot  and  dry — 

Long,  drab,  endless  trenches 
Stretching  far  and  nigh. 

Zigzag,  fretted,  running  sere 

From  the  cold  North  Sea, 
'Cross  the  muddy  Flanders  plain 

And  vales  of  Picardy. 

Through  the  fields  of  new,  green  wheat 

Filled  with  poppies  red, 
While  abandoned  plow-shares  show 

Whence  the  peasants  fled. 

Past  the  great  cathedral  towns, 

Where  each  gorgeous  spire 
Torn  and  tottering,  slowly  wilts 

'Neath  the  Vandals'  ire. 

Hiding  in  the  shadows 

Of  the  hills  of  French  Lorraine, 
And  bending  south  through  rugged  heights 

To  the  land  of  sun  again. 

Trenches,  endless  trenches, 
Shod  with  high  desire — 
17 


All  that  man  holds  more  than  life, 
And  touched  with  patriot  fire. 

Trenches,  endless  trenches, 

Where  tightening  draws  the  cord 
'Round  the  throat  of  brutal  Kultur, 

And  its  red  and  dripping  sword. 

Trenches,  endless  trenches, 

Bleached  and  choked  with  rain, 

Could  ye  speak  what  tales  ye'd  tell 
Of  honor,  death  and  pain. 

Could  ye  speak,  what  tales  ye'd  tell 
Of  shame  and  golden  worth, 

To  the  glory  and  damnation 
Of  the  spawn  of  all  the  Earth. 


18 


BARB-WIRE  POSTS. 

FIVE  o'clock;  the  shadows  fall 

In  mist  and  gloom  and  cloud ; 
And  No  Man 's  Land  is  a  sullen  waste, 

Wrapped  in  a  sodden  shroud ; 
And  the  click  of  Big  Mac's  moving  foot 

Is  a  dangerous  noise  and  loud. 

Ten  o'clock;  the  wind  moans  low — 

Each  tree  is  a  phantom  gray : 
And  the  wired  posts  are  silent  ghosts 

That  move  with  a  drunken  sway; 
(But  never  a  gleam  in  No  Man's  Land 

Till  the  dawn  of  another  day) . 

Twelve  o  'clock ;  the  heavens  yawn 
Like  the  mouth  of  a  chasm  deep ; 

And  see — that  isn't  the  fence  out  there — 
It's  a  Boche — and  he  stoops  to  creep — 

I'll  take  a  shot — oh  hell,  a  post — 
(Oh  God,  for  a  wink  o'  sleep). 

Two  o  'clock ;  the  cold  wet  fog 

Bears  down  in  dripping  banks : 
Ah,  here  they  come — the  dirty  hounds — 

In  swinging,  serried  ranks! 
19 


Why  don't  the  automatics  start?  .  .  . 
Or  do  my  eyes  play  pranks? 

It  doesn't  seem  a  column  now, 

But  just  two  sneaking  there: 
And  one  is  climbing  over, 

While  the  other  of  the  pair 
Is  clipping  at  the  wires 

With  exasperating  care. 

(I'm  sober  as  a  gray-beard  judge — 

I  'm  calm  as  the  morning  dew — 
I'm  wide  awake  and  I'll  stake 

My  eyes  with  the  best  of  you ; 
But  I  can't  explain  just  how  or  why 

Posts  do  the  things  they  do.) 

Three  o'clock;  they're  on  the  move — 
Well,  let  the  beggars  come.  .  .  . 

A  crash — a  hush — a  spiral  shriek — 
And  a  noise  like  a  big  bass  drum — 

(I  hope  that  Hun  shot  hasn't  found 
Our  kitchen  and  the  slum). 

Five  o'clock;  the  first  faint  streak 

Of  a  leaden  dawn  lifts  gray; 
And  the  barb-wire  posts  are  sightless  ghosts 

That  swagger,  click  and  sway, 
And  seem  to  grin,  in  their  blood-stained  sin, 

In  a  most  unpleasant  way. 


20 


FEET. 

SOME  say  this  war  was  fought  and  won 

With  gleaming  bayonets, 
That  lift  and  laugh  with  Death's  own  chaff 

And  leave  no  fond  regrets : 
Some,  by  the  long  lean  foul-lipped  guns 

Where  the  first  barrages  meet, 
But  I,  by  the  poor  old  weary  limping 

Tired  broken  feet. 

Some  say  this  war  was  fought  and  won 

By  the  crawling,  reeking  gas; 
Some,  by  the  flitting  birdmen, 

That  dip  and  pause  and  pass: 
Some,  by  the  splitting  hand-grenades — 

But  I,  I  hear  the  beat 
Of  the  poor  old  faithful  worn  limping 

Tired  broken  feet. 

Some  say  the  war  was  fought  and  won 

By  This  or  That  or  Those— 
But  I,  by  heel  and  sunken  arch 

And  blistered,  bleeding  toes. 
Drag  on,  drag  on,  oh  weary  miles, 

Through  mire,  slush  and  sleet, 
To  the  glory  of  the  rhythm 

Of  the  poor  old  broken  feet. 
21 


YOUR  GAS-MASK. 

WHEN  over  your  shoulders  your  "full-field"  you 

fling, 

And  you  curse  the  whole  load  for  a  horrible  thing, 
What  is  it  you  reach  for,  as  outward  you  swing? 
Your  gas-mask. 

If  you  head  for  a  bath  by  the  small  river's  flow — 
Though  only  a  distance  of  fifty  or  so — 
What  is  it  you  carefully  grab  ere  you  go  ? 
Your  gas-mask. 

When   in   full   marching-order,   where   mules   might 

suffice, 

And  you  count  your  equipment,  each  having  its  price, 
What  is  it  you  feel  for  and  count  over  twice  ? 
Your  gas-mask. 

In  morning  and  afternoon,  evening  and  night — 
In  first  or  support  lines,  in  sleep  or  in  fight, 
What  is  it  you  cherish  and  cling  to  so  tight? 
Your  gas-mask. 

What  is  it  you  never  leave  thoughtless  behind  ? 
What  is  it  you  clutch  for  with  fingers  that  bind 
As  you  sniff  that  first  odor  that  comes  on  the  wind  ? 
Your  gas-mask. 
22 


SLUM  AND  BEEF  STEW. 

IT 'S  a  lot  of  dirty  water 
And  some  little  dabs  of  spuds, 

And  dubious  hunks  of  gristly  meat 
And  divers  other  duds. 

Served  up  to  us  in  trenches, 

Our  hunger  made  it  good, 
But  elsewhere — when  we  got  it — 

We  ate  it,  if  we  could. 

And  now  about  the  time  Josephus 

Tells  his  gobs  to  call 
Port  and  Starboard,  left  and  right, 

We're  ordered,  one  and  all, 

To  most  respectfully  address 

Our  slum  as  ''beef  stew" — Gosh, 

Methinks  the  Brains  of  the  Army 
Has  dished-up  awful  bosh. 

For  slum  is  slum,  and  your  Tummy-turn 

Has  called  it  so  for  aye; 
As  'twas  when  Thotmes  III  marched  north 

To  check  the  Hittites'  sway. 
23 


As  'twas  when  Cyrus'  doughboys  swept 

Through  the  Cilician  Gates — 
And  as  'twill  ever  be  so  long 

As  a  weary  mess-line  waits. 

So  long  as  Nations  fight  and  eat — 
Though  all  don't  feed  as  well — 

For  the  Colonel  is  Sitting  on  the  World- 
While  we  are  S.  0.  L. 

Perhaps,  kind  friend,  our  logic  may 

Strike  you  as  on  the  bum — 
But  as  we're  Pershing's  slum-hounds, 

We'll  call  the  damn  thing  "slum." 


24 


SHELL-FIRE. 

The  Hun  lie  taught  us  Gas  and  things — 

But  the  high  explosive  shell 
Was  born  of  the  Devil's  mirth 

And  the  reddest  forge  in  Hell. 

Now  one  hits  the  village  church, 

And  the  ancient,  wavering  wall 
And  the  little  pointed  tower  swing 

And  stagger  and  sway  and  fall. 

Now  one  hits  a  red-slag  roof, 

And  eighty  feet  on  high 
Towers  a  monstrous,  salmon  cloud 

Against  an  azure  sky. 

Now  one  hits  in  a  field  of  wheat, 

Fresh  planted,  fair  and  green, 
And  a  mighty,  thundering  crater  bursts 

Where  abandoned  plows  careen. 

Now  one  nears  with  spiral  shriek 
And  strikes  in  the  long  white  road, 

And  the  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  the  Red  Cross  truck, 
And  its  helpless,  weary  load. 
25 


Now  one  comes  where  you  crouching  wait 

In  the  trench's  far-flung  line, 
And  you  know  there  is  never  shelter  against 

The  voice  of  that  deadly  whine. 

Now  one  pierces  the  dugout's  roof, 
And  when  the  foul  smokes  pass, 

What  once  was  there  a  dozen  men 
Is  a  crimson,  clotted  mass. 

In  the  pale  moonlight  or  the  black  of  night— 

When  the  sunset  fires  flare — 
In  the  noontime's  calm,  without  alarm, 

The  Great  Arch  Fiend  is  there, 
With  his  frightful  cry  as  he  rushes  nigh 

On  his  errand  of  despair. 


26 


MB.  FLY. 

THERE 'S  a  nice  stiff  breeze  ablowing, 

Mr.  Fly; 

That  keeps  from  out  my  trench 
The  decomposing  stench 
Of  a  soldier,  Boche  or  French, 

Mr.  Fly. 

So  please  run  off  and  play, 

Mr.  Fly. 

So  please  run  off  and  play 
Like  a  good  fly,  right  away, 
For  I  want  to  sleep  today, 

Mr.  Fly. 

I'm  dozing  like  a  bull-finch, 

Mr.  Fly, 

"When  you  hop  me,  unaware, 
And  I  wake  and  swat  and  swear, 
And  you  return  with  thoughtful  care, 

Mr.  Fly. 

Can't  you  see  I'm  very  tired, 

Mr.  Fly? 

That  the  G.  I.  Cans  don't  bust, 
And  I  Ve  nibbled  on  a  crust, 
27 


And  deserve  a  snooze,  I  trust, 
Mr.  Fly. 

Do  you  think  it 's  square  and  decent, 

Mr.  Fly, 

When  the  Cooties  cease  to  bite, 
(And  there  is  no  sleep  at  night) 
That  you  give  me  no  respite, 

Mr.  Fly? 

An  hour's  calm  is  with  us, 

Mr.  Fly; 

And  the  endless  battle  strain, 
And  the  shelling  and  the  rain, 
Ought  to  make  it  very  plain, 

Mr.  Fly- 
That  I  need  a  little  nap, 

Mr.  Fly. 

That  I  do  need  mighty  well 
Just  to  sun  and  rest  a  spell, 
And  to  sleep  here  where  I  fell, 

Mr.  Fly. 

So  have  a  heart,  oh  have  a  heart ! 

Mr.  Fly. 

If  you're  looking  for  a  fight 
And  you  mu-st  come  'round  and  bite, 
Make  your  visit  in  the  night, 

Mr.  Fly. 


28 


THE  SALVATION  ARMY  WITH  THE  A.  E.  F. 

YOU  kept  no  roped-off  rows  of  chairs 
Or  clubs  "For  Officers  Only," 

But  you  toiled  for  John  Doe  when  he  was 
Cold,  tired,  wet  and  lonely. 

You  didn't  squander  millions 

On  soldiers  warming  benches, 
But  you  worked  like  blazes  for  the  ones 

That  frequented  the  trenches. 

You  didn't  stick  to  cast-iron  rules 

Of  business  most  punctilious, 
And  you  never  treated  Private  Doe 

With  manner  supercilious. 

You  had  no  boundless  backing — 

But  just  inside  your  doors 
It  seemed  like,  "Feel  to  home,  Bill — 

Sit  down,  the  place  is  yours." 

Some  things  we  fain  remember — 

Some  things  we  fain  forget — 
But  you,  oh  kindly  people, 

Live  in  our  memory  yet. 


29 


SHELL-HOLES. 

THEY'RE  ugly,  jagged,  cone-shaped  holes 

That  litter  up  the  ground, 
That  ruin  all  the  landscape 

For  miles  and  miles  around. 

That  pock-mark  fertile  fields  of  green — 
That  rip  the  hard  French  roads, 

And  catch  the  lumbering  trucks  at  night 
Agroan  beneath  their  loads. 

And  some  of  them  are  little  uns 
The  shrill  one-pounders  plow — 

About  a  meter — edge  to  edge — 
But  large  enough,  I  trow. 

And  some  of  them  nigh  twice  as  broad, 
And  rather  more  straight  down, 

The  "77"  Bodies'  gift, 
Of  dubious  renown. 

And  some  of  them  a  dozen  feet 

From  rim  to  ragged  rim, 
And  deep  enough  to  hide  a  horse — 

A  crater,  gaunt  and  grim. 
30 


And  some  of  them  are  yellow-black, 
Where  clings  the  reek  of  gas, 

(But  here  we  do  not  pause  to  gaze, 
Nor  linger  as  we  pass). 

And  some  of  them  are  water-fouled — 
Or  dried  and  parched  and  dun; 

And  some  of  them  are  newly  turned — 
Fresh  blotches  'neath  the  sun. 

But  all  spell  red  destruction, 
Blind  rage  and  blinding  hate, 

To  them  who  charge  the  shell-swept  zone 
Or  in  the  trenches  wait. 

Should  we  say  "all,"  or  modify 

Our  statement?     Any  fool 
Knows  that  exceptions  always  rise 

To  prove  an  iron-clad  rule. 

And  so  in  this  case  we  can  name 
Some  shell-holes  we  have  met, 

The  thought  of  whose  engulfing  sides 
Clings  in  our  memory  yet. 

They  were  the  holes  we  rolled  into— 
When  iron  or  bullet  struck — 

Cursing  the  cursed  Prussian, 
And  blessing  our  blessed  luck. 

Oh  lovely,  beauteous  shell-hole, 
Wherein  we  helpless  lay, 
31 


A  wondrous  couch  of  velvet 
Ye  seemed  to  us  that  day. 

Our  blood  it  stained  your  cushions 

A  deep  and  richer  red, 
As  shrieking  messengers  of  death 

Sped  harmless  overhead. 

Swept  whining  in  their  blood-lust, 
Hell's  music,  bleak  and  grim, 

Splitting  in  rage  the  edges 
Of  your  all-protecting  rim. 

Oh  shell-holes,  murderous  shell-holes, 
In  vales  of  grass  and  wheat — 

On  hillside  and  in  forest, 
In  road  and  village  street— 

Your  toll  of  suffering  and  death 
Is  flashed  to  East  and  West — 

But  tell  they  of  the  wounded 
Ye've  sheltered  in  your  breast? 


32 


FOOD. 

WE'VE  eaten  at  the  Plaza,  at  Sherry's  and  the  Ritz— 
The  Bellevue  and  the  Willard  and  the  Ponce  de  Leon 

too. 
We've   sampled   all  the   cooking  of  the   Savoy   and 

Meurice, 
Through   a  palate-tickling  riot  that  Lucullus  never 

knew. 

From  tables  where  the  Northern  Fires  greet  the  com 
ing  night — 

To  Raffles  out  in  Singapore  and  the  Palace  in  Bombay ; 

From  Shepheard's  (which  means  Cairo)  to  that  little 
hostelry 

Way  down  in  Trinchinopoly  where  purring  punkahs 
sway. 

We've  traveled  north,  we've  traveled  south  by  all 

routes  known  to  man — 
We  've  traveled  east,  we  've  traveled  west  by  some  they 

scarcely  came : 

From  canvasback  and  terrapin  to  Russian  caviar, 
From  venison  to  bird-nest  soup  and  curried  things 

and  game. 

33 


We've  put  them  all  beneath  our  belt  with  consummate 

address : 
We've  risen  from  the  laden  board  and  smacked  our 

jowl  in  glee. 
With  organs  sound  and  healthy  we  have  murdered 

each  menu 
And  left  the  wreck  of  good  things  with  a  gourmet's 

ecstasy. 

But  do  you  wish  to  know  the  feasts  that  permeated 

deep — 
That  stirred  the  very  bottom  of  my  stomach  to  the 

core? 
Quisine  that  brought  such  wondrous  bliss,  but  satiated 

not, 
That  saturating  satisfied,  but  still  left  room  for  more? 

The  place — a  little  half  deserted  town  in  northern 

France : 
The  time — a  time  of  carnage,  of  wanton  strife  and 

hate: 

And  I  and  my  battalion  on  reserve  a  week  or  two 
Till  they  call  us  to  the  Front  again  to  force  the  hands 

of  Fate. 

Just  from  the  Commissary,  the  Salvation  or  the  Y, 

I've  got  a  bar  of  chocolate,  some  butter  and  some  cake ; 

A  canteen  full  of  milk,  and  eggs,  from  the  old  farm 
house  near  by, 

And  with  this  tout  ensemble  you  can  see  I'm  sitting 
jake. 


34 


I've    entered    now    a    peasant's    house — an    ancient, 

kindly  dame— 
Who's  seen  me  several  times  before,  and  knows  just 

what  I  wish : 
So  the  frying-pan  is  gotten  out — the  pewter  fork  and 

knife — 
A  big  bowl  and  the  skillet  and  a  large,  substantial 

dish. 

And  I  'm  breaking  up  the  bar  of  chocolate  in  a  mighty 

bowl 
(The  while  the  eggs  are  frying,  "Sur  le  plat,  oui,  s'il 

vous  plait"), 
And  pouring  from  my  canteen's  gurgling  mouth  a 

draught  of  milk, 
To  expedite  proceedings  in  a  purely  tactful  way. 

And  now  the  spluttering  eggs  are  done,  the  chocolate's 

hot  and  rich ; 
I  have  my  feet  beneath  the  board,  the  pewter  weapons 

near : 
A  hunger  from  a  front-line  trench — the  stomach  of  a 

goat — 
And  a  battle-line  that's  very  far,  though  still  the  guns 

ring  clear. 

And  thus,  too  full  for  utterance,  I  gently  draw  the 

veil — 

So  leave  me,  kindly  reader,  in  my  joy — 
And  maybe  you  will  understand  why  other  dinners 

pale, 
And  in  comparison  with  this,  appear  to  clog  and  cloy. 


35 


OVER  THE  TOP. 

WE  'VE  soldiered  many,  many  moons 

In  this  old  plugging  war, 
And  all  the  ills  and  all  the  thrills, 

We've  had  'em  o'er  and  o'er. 

Shell-fire,  G.  I.  Cans  and  Gas — 
Night  work  in  No  Man's  Land — 

And  everything  that  calls  for  nerve, 
Endurance,  guts  and  sand. 

We've  argued  which  we  liked  the  worst- 
Machine-guns,  gas  or  shell. 

We've  ruminated  carefully — 
And  done  it  rather  well. 

And  after  all  our  resume 

And  cogitating  bull, 
We've  reached  a  clear  decision, 

Most  amplified  and  full: — 

The  greatest  time  in  all  the  life 

Of  any  living  man — 
The  mightiest  moment  of  the  Game — 

The  proudest,  high  elan ; 
36 


The  thing  we  came  three  thousand  miles 

Across  the  seas  to  do — 
"The  Day,"  the  splendid  hour 

That  waits  for  me  and  you, 

Arrives — We  spring  into  the  wastes 
Of  land,  ripped,  roweled  and  barred- 

The  battle-lust  in  brain  and  eye — 
The  weary  jaw  set  hard ; 

The  rifle  gripped  in  hands  of  steel, 

Where,  flashing  in  the  sun, 
Sweep  on  our  blazing  bayonets, 

The  terror  of  the  Hun. 


37 

O-S 


THE  BATTLE  MOTHER. 

OVER  the  sodden  trenches — 

Over  the  skirmish  line — 
High  o'er  the  hole-torn  fields  and  roads 

Cometh  a  face  to  mine. 

Under  the  burning  gas  attack, 

And  the  stench  of  the  bursting  shell, 

We  hope  we  may  live  for  her  dear  sake — 
She  who  would  wish  us  well. 

(She  who  has  ever  cherished  us — 

But  when  the  hour  came 
Choked  back  the  tears  of  the  faithful  years, 

As  we  left  to  play  the  game.) 

Between  the  blazing  horizons 

That  hammer  the  long  night  through, 

Lapping  their  tongues  of  hatred- 
Fearless  she  comes  to  you. 

And  over  the  roar  of  battle 

Where  the  shrill-voiced  shrapnel  sings, 
Shine  forth  the  loving  eyes  we  hold 

Above  all  earthly  things. 
38 


A  World  run  mad  with  slaughter- 
A  charnel-house  of  blood — 

But  the  face  of  the  Battle  Mother 
Above  the  crimson  flood. 


39 


SONG  OF  THE  VOLUNTEERS  OF  1917. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

The  whole  big  army  did, 
But  ive  prefer  the  spirit 

Of  the  Bayard  and  the  Cid. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

But  when  Jack  sailed  for  France, 
They  didn't  have  to  drag  us  in 

By  the  back  of  our  neck  and  the  seat  of  our  pants. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

But  when  it  first  began, 
From  coast  to  coast,  from  Lakes  to  Gulf, 

We  rose,  a  single  man. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

But  when  the  days  were  black, 
Glad  we  sprang  to  the  call  to  front 

The  snarling,  charging  pack. 

The  red-fanged,  savage  hounds  of  hate, 

In  a  victor's  drunken  might: 
The  unleashed,  howling  gray  hordes 

Sweeping  plain  and  height. 
40 


The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 
But  when  the  great  floes  pressed, 

Came  we  to  break  the  iee  and  clear 
A  channel  for  the  rest. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

But  now  the  thing  is  o'er, 
We're  glad  we  came  the  way  we  came 

When  the  Nation  rose  to  war. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

But  now  the  thing  is  done, 
We're  glad  we  came  the  time  we  came 

In  the  heyday  of  the  Hun. 

Shades  of  Patrick  Henry— 

Of  Washington  and  Hale, 
God  grant  we've  kept  the  trust — God  grant 

The  Old  Guard  shall  not  fail. 

The  drafted  men  fought  hard  and  well, 

The  whole  vast  army  did, 
But  we  prefer  the  spirit 

Of  the  Bayard  and  the  Cid. 


41 


0.  D. 

0.  D.,  it  ought  to  mean  Oh  Damn, 

When  in  the  pay  of  Uncle  8a»i: 
But  when  you  hear  the  soldier  blab 

"0.  D."  it  just  means  Olive  Drab. 

The  leggings,  breeches  and  the  boots 
Of  Uncle  Samuel's  war  galoots — 

The  overcoats  and  jackets  too, 

Confess  the  selfsame  mournful  hue. 

It  may  be  excellent  camouflage 

To  try  to  fool  a  young  barrage ; 
It  may  not  show  the  bally  dirt 

So  much  upon  your  knees  and  shirt. 

It  may  be  serviceable  and  such 

When  you  are  beating-up  the  "Dutch;" 

But  from  a  calm  esthetic  point, 
The  color's  sadly  out-of- joint. 

A  little  mud  on  red  or  blue 

May  seem  quite  prominent  to  you ; 

But  put  the  same  upon  0.  D., 

And  the  whole  blame  thing  looks  mud  to  me. 
42 


But  then,  it  matches  trenches  well, 

And  things  that  make  you  say,  Oh  Hell : 

For  instance,  hikes,  inspections,  drills, 
And  busted  arms  with  C.  C.  pills. 

It  makes  you  heave  a  sigh  or  two 

For  the  good  old  days  of  brass  and  blue ; 

But  if  it's  tit  to  beat  the  "Dutch" 
I  guess  it  doesn't  matter  much. 


43 


ARTILLERY  REGISTERING. 

THEY'RE  shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench- 

My  boy. 

They're   shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench, 
Which  means  tonight  they'll  surely  drench 
These  works  with  shells  that  burst  and  stench 

(And  cloy). 

They're  shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench — 

My  lad. 

It  breaks  with  shrill  and  tinny  sound, 
And  quite  promiscuously  around 
It  showers  metal  on  the  ground 

(It's  bad). 

They're  shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench — 

Recruit. 

So  do  not  stand  and  stupid  stare 
Till  some  comes  down  and  parts  your  hair, 
But  hunt  your  dugout  and  beware 

(To  boot). 

They're  shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench — 

Young  man. 

Which  means  tonight  the  gas  shells'  thud 
Will  muffled  fall  like  chunks  of  mud; 
44 


And  th'  blinding,  crashing  Prince  of  Blood- 
The  G.  I.  Can. 

They're  shooting  shrapnel  o'er  the  trench — 

My  child. 

And  ere  the  dawn  is  turning  gray — 
You  mark  the  very  words  I  say — 
There's  going  to  he  hell  to  pay 

(High  piled). 


45 


RECIPROCITY. 

WE  haven't  been  in  this  large  strife 

So  very  long-  to  date, 
But  we  have  learned  our  answer  to 

The  Prussian  "Hymn  of  Hate." 
And  we  are  feeding  him  for  pap, 

As  plain  as  A.  B.  C., 
A  pretty  little  ditty  known 

As  "Reciprocity." 

The  Hun  he  planned  for  War,  red  War, 

By  ocean,  air  and  land; 
And  he  is  getting  oodles  of 

The  same,  to  date,  in  hand. 
He  suddenly  sprang  poison  gas 

Upon  a  valiant  foe, 
And  now  he's  getting  gas  and  gas, 

And  more  gas,  as  you  know. 

He  found  new  tricks  and  wrinkles  for 

This  gory  battle  game, 
And  now  we  stoop,  no  more  his  dupe, 

And  beat  him  at  the  same. 
He  drowned  our  women  in  the  sea — 

He  ravished  where  he  won — 
But  these  were  little  things  we  couldn't 

Copy  from  the  Hun. 
46 


His  crimson  heel  lie  bade  us  feel, 
His  lust  and  pride  and  scorn — 

Till,  echoing  in  our  weary  breasts 
A  righteous  hate  was  born 

Beware  the  patient  man  in  wrath, 
The  olden  proverb  saith ; 

And,  Spawn  of  a  Kultur  nursed  in  blood- 
In  blood  meet  ye  your  death. 


47 


TRUCKS. 

Lunging-wild,  careening  trucks 

Plunging  through  the  raw, 
Sweeping  down  the  rainbow  road 

To  the  sunlit  plain, 
And  echoing  back  with  ponderous  roar 

Their  cargo's  wild  refrain. 

We're  bowling  over  the  roads  of  France — 

White  roads. 

We're  twenty  gray  trucks  in  a  long,  long  line, 
Twisting  and  rumbling  and  feeling  fine, 
And  some  day  we'll  roll  to  the  Watch  on  the  Rhine- 
Joyous  loads. 

But  now  we're  returning  to  billets  for  rest- 
Earned  repose. 

We've  been  in  the  trenches  for  many  a  week, 
In  rain  and  in  wind  and  in  dugouts  that  leak, 
Till  we  all  are  so  hoarse  we  scarcely  can  speak, 
Goodness  knows. 

Our  clothes  they  are  worn  and  tattered  and  torn, 

And  mud? 

My  heavens !  we  have  it  in  our  leggings  and  hair — 
On  breeches  and  jackets  and  all  that  we  wear — 

48 


But  we  are  so  happy,  we  really  don't  care — 
'Tisn't  blood. 

It  isn't  those  long,  endless  vigils  at  night, 

On  the  rack. 

It  isn't  the  fighting  and  hunger  and  heat- 
It  isn't  the  slush  and  rheumatics  and  sleet — 
It  isn't  the  once-a-day  cold  meal  we  eat 

In  the  black. 

It  isn't  the  shelling  from  sun  unto  sun — 

Cursed  shells : 

It  isn't  the  camouflage  that  you  must  use 
If  you  have  to  lie  down  in  your  trench  for  a  snooze, 
It  isn  't  the  stenches  the  Hun  corpses  choose 

For  their  smells. 

But  it's  clean  clothes  and  gasoline-bath  and  a  shave — 

What  a  treat ! 

It's  sleeping  on  elegant  straw,  and  undressed, 
With  never  a  Toto  disturbing  your  rest ; 
It's  regaining  your  "pep"  and  a  wonderful  zest 

When  you  eat. 

We're  all  of  us  willing,  we're  all  of  us  game 

For  the  fray: 

But  now  we  have  finished  a  good  hitch,  and  more, 
In  conducting  this  large  and  salubrious  war, 
Do  you  think  we  should  feel  very  tearful  or  sore 

On  this  day? 

So  some  we  are  singing  and  some  shoot  the  bull, 
And  some  sleep. 
49 


(Don't  wake  the  poor  devil,  just  leave  him  alone, 
Though  he's  jammed  on  your  foot  till  it's  dead  as  a 

stone), 

And  we  rumble  through  towns  on  the  way  to  our  own, 
Packed  like  sheep. 

And  your  hand  is  afingering  bills  large  and  small- 
Francs  galore. 

And  you've  visions  of  things  that  your  poor  stomach 
begs, 

Including  nuts,  candy  and  chocolate  and  eggs ; 

And  you  find  you  Ve  forgotten  the  crick  in  your  legs — 
Cramped  and  sore. 

We're  a  light-hearted,  dirty-faced,  rollicking  crew- 
Grimy  pawed: 

Though  a  few  cogitate  on  the  living  and  dead, 
And  some  look  behindward,  and  some  look  ahead, 
And  some  think  of  bunkies  that  shrapnel  has  sped 
To  their  God. 

Lung  ing -wild,  careening  trucks 

Plunging  through  the  rain, 
Sweeping  down  the  rainbow  road 

To  the  sunlit  plain, 
And  echoing  back  with  ponderous  roar 

Their  cargo's  wild  refrain. 


50 


MADEMOISELLE. 

OH  Mademoiselle  behind  the  Lines, 

When  we're  weary  and  covered  with  dirt, 

And  you  make  a  promenade  with  us, 
Or  perhaps  you  mend  our  shirt. 

You  know  our  lives  from  your  brothers, 
Or  your  sweethearts  who  can't  come  back, 

But  only  your  laughter  greets  us 
When  we  shed  that  awful  "pack." 

And  some  of  you  sell  eggs  to  us 

In  a  town  whence  most  have  fled: 
And  some  of  your  names  have  "de"  and  your  blood 

Runs  blue  as  well  as  red. 

Oh  Mademoiselle  you  sure  are  "chic" 
From  your  head  to  the  tip  o'  your  toes, 

And  if  you  like  us,  you  just  plain  like  us, 
And  you  don't  give  a  damn  who  knows. 

A.nd  Mademoiselle  those  eyes,  Oo  la  la! 

So  sparkling,  dark  and  rare, 
With  the  love  of  all  the  ages  lying 

Deep  and  dormant  there. 
51 


(Please,  please  don't  think  us  fickle — 

That  we  didn't  play  the  game — 
But  you  seemed  so  human  and  made  to  be  loved, 

And  we  murmured,  "Je  vous  aime. ") 

We  hear  you're  going  back  with  us 

To  the  tune  of  ten  thousand  wives, 
And  we  wish  you  ten  thousand  blessings, 

And  ten  thousand  happy  lives. 

So  here's  a  health  to  you,  Mademoiselle, 

Who  helped  us  see  it  through, 
And  the  load  that  your  laughter  lightened 

Is  the  debt  that  we  owe  to  you. 


52 


THE  FIRST  DIVISION. 
American  Expeditionary  Forces,  1917-1919. 

WHEN  the  clarion  call  of  Country 

Bade  strong  men  rise  and  go, 
Came  they  the  first  of  the  willing  first, 

In  the  pride  that  leal  men  know. 

When  the  Eagle  soared  and  its  broad  wings  spread 
'Bove  the  shores  of  an  angered  land, 

Sailed  they  the  first  of  the  Viking  first 
Where  the  treacherous  waters  spanned. 

When  the  Eagle's  Brood  awoke  to  the  shriek 

Of  the  great  shells  day  and  night, 
First  of  the  flock  bled  they  beneath 

The  star-flare's  blinding  light. 

When  the  lunging,  torn  front  lines  locked 

And  the  strife  raged  man  and  man, 
Swept  they  the  first  of  the  fighting  first — 

And  the  van  of  the  battle  van. 


From  the  training  days  of  Gondrecourt- 
Demange — cold,  wet  and  gray — 
53 


To  the  trenches  north  of  Luneville — 
To  Bouconville — Xivray — 

To  the  crater-pitted,  wasted  tracts 

Of  war-torn  Picardy, 
And  the  ghastly  rubble  hilltop 

Where  Cantigny  used  to  be: 

To  the  splendid  days  of  Soissons — 

The  crisis  of  the  strife : 
To  where  giant  pincers  severed 

St.  Mihiel  as  a  knife: 

To  the  glorious,  stubborn  struggle 
Up  the  rugged  Argonne  slopes, 

Till  the  gates  of  Sedan  crumbled 
With  the  Vandals '  crumbling  hopes. 


Sweeping  in  conquering  columns 
To  the  banks  of  the  vaunted  Rhine- 

Ever  the  first  of  the  fighting  first, 
And  the  Lords  of  the  Battle  Line. 


54 


LITTLE  GOLD  CHEVRONS  ON  MY  CUFFS. 

LITTLE  gold  chevrons  on  my  cuffs, 

What  do  you  mean  to  me? 
"We  to  the  left  mean  hike  and  drill, 
Trenches  and  mud  and  heat  and  chill — 
And  I  to  the  right  for  the  blood  ye  spill 

Where  the  Marne  runs  to  the  sea." 

Little  gold  chevrons  on  my  cuffs, 

What  is  the  tale  ye  tell  ? 
"We  to  the  left,  of  the  long  months  spent 
Where  the  somber  seasons  slowly  blent — 
And  I  to  the  right,  of  the  ragged  rent 

That  took  so  long  to  get  well. ' ' 

Little  gold  chevrons  on  my  cuffs, 

What  do  you  say  to  me? 
"That  ye  would  not  trade  us,  master  mine, 
For  ribbon  or  cross  or  rank,  in  fine, 
That  you  are  ours  and  we  are  thine 

Through  all  the  years  to  be." 


55 


A  TRIP-WIRE. 

IF  you  're  sneaking  around  on  a  night  patrol, 
Trying  to  miss  each  cock-eyed  hole, 
And  you  choke  back  a  curse  from  the  depths  of  your 
soul- 
It's  a  trip-wire. 

If  you  think  there  isn't  a  thing  around 
Except  the  desolate,  shell-torn  ground, 
And  you  stumble  and  roll  like  a  spool  unwound — 
It's  a  trip-wire. 

If  you  know  a  murmur  would  give  the  alarm, 

And  you've  smothered  a  cough  in  the  crotch  of  your 

arm, 

And  then  you  go  falling  all  over  the  farm — 
It's  a  trip-wire. 

If  it's  cold  and  it's  rainy  and  everything's  mud, 
And  you're  groping  your  way  through  a  nice  little 

flood, 

And  you  stand  on  your  head  with  an  elegant  thud — 
It's  a  trip-wire. 

When -silence  is  golden  (for  "news"  is  the  quest), 
And  you're  returning  and  stepping  your  best, 
And  your  rifle  goes  part  way  and  you  go  the  rest- 
It 's  a  trip-wire. 
56 


THE  FAVORITE  SONG. 

("There's  a  long,  long  Trail") 

THEY  sing  a  song  that  the  pines  of  Maine 

Hear  in  the  winter's  blast — 
They  sing  a  song  that  the  riders  hum, 

Where  the  cattle  plains  spread  vast ; 
But  there  is  one  they  love  the  most — 

And  they  keep  it  for  the  last. 

They  sing  the  lays  of  Puget  Sound 

Aglimmering  in  the  sun — 
Of  the  cotton  fields  of  Alabam', 

Where  the  Gulf-bound  rivers  run, 
But  one  they  sing  with  a  wistful  look, 

When  all  the  rest  are  done. 

They  chant  of  the  land  of  Dixie, 

And  their  "Little  Gray  Home  in  the  West' 
Of  how  they'll  "can  the  Kaiser"— 

And  they  roar  with  bellowing  zest ; 
But  one  they  sing  as  it  were  a  prayer — 

The  song  they  love  the  best. 

From  Xivray  to  Cantigny— 
From  Soissons  to  the  Meuse — 
57 


From  the  Argonne  wilds  to  the  white-clad  Vosges 

Agleam  in  the  dawn's  first  hues — 
They  sing  a  sacred  song,  for  it 

Is  red  with  battle-dews. 

For  it  is  sanctified  by  space — 

And  the  cruel  wheel  of  Time ; 
And  sacrifice  has  hallowed  it, 

And  mellowed  every  rhyme, 
Until  it  wells  from  weary  throats 

A  thing  men  call  sublime. 

In  frozen  trench  and  billet — 

In  mire,  muck  and  rain — 
Where  the  roar  of  unleashed  batteries 

Hurl  forth  their  fires  again; 
At  rest,  or  back  in  Blighty, 

Torn  with  shell  and  pain — 

There's  a  song  they  dub  the  fairest — 

There 's  a  lilt  they  love  the  best — 
"There's  a  long,  long  trail  awinding" 

To  the  haven  of  their  quest, 
Where  the  tip  of  the  rainbow  reaches 

A  land  in  the  golden  west. 


58 


CAPTAIN  BLANKBURG. 

'When  Greek  meets  Greek." 


THEY  knew  he  was  a  German — 
They  thought  he  was  a  spy — 

Tou jours  they  "covered"  him  and  said, 
"We'll  catch  him  by-and-by." 

They  tried  to  find,  by  word  or  act, 

In  front-line  trench  or  rear, 
Some  circumstance  that  would  betray 

His  treacherous  dealings  clear. 

They  scanned  his  face  when  hostile  flares 

Set  No  Man's  Land  alight — 
They  watched  him  when  the  Hun  barrage 

Tore  craters  left  and  right. 

They  noted  every  move  he  made, 

With  ever  wakeful  eye, 
Reiterating  o'er  and  o'er, 

"We'll  catch  him  by-and-by." 


59 


II 


At  last  the  opportunity 

Loomed  large  in  fact  and  view, 

And  every  near-sleuth  in  the  bunch 
Saw  that  his  hunch  was  true. 

Because,  upon  an  inky  night, 
When  mist  hung  o'er  the  nation, 

The  captain  took  a  picked  patrol 
To  gather  information. 

And  as  they  crept  on  hands  and  knees, 

In  Land  No  Man  may  own, 
Their  stomachs  struck  the  dew-wet  grass 

With  never  sound  or  moan. 

(The  reason  being  that  the  Boche, 

On  selfsame  errand  set, 
Were  creeping  hitherward  unseen — 

And  likewise  mad  and  wet.) 

'Twas  then  the  detail  turned  their  heads 

To  where  their  captain  lay, 
And  every  rifle  in  that  squad 

Was  pointed  straight  his  way. 

And  he  ?     He  running  true  to  form, 

Two  inches  raised  his  chin, 
And  spouted  German  volubly 

In  accents  clear  and  thin. 


60 


Click,  click,  click,  click,  click,  down  the  line 

Each  safety-catch  turned  o'er, 
But  the  captain  did  not  hesitate, 

And  merely  talked  the  more. 

In  conversation  friendly 

He  rambled  gently  on 
Unto  the  Bodies'  leader, 

Till  it  was  nearly  dawn. 

The  while  his  men  they  "covered"  him — 
The  while  their  hearts  grew  black — 

And  you  could  feel  the  trigger  fingers 
Squeezing  up  the  slack. 

Just  what  the  purport  of  his  last 

Eemark  was,  no  one  knew, 
But  in  a  burst  of  confidence 

A  Boche  head  rose  in  view.  .  .  . 

Across  the  four-fold  stillness 

That  covers  No  Man's  Land, 
An  automatic  pistol  shot 

Rang  clear  and  piercing  and 

The  next  day  German  papers  told 

How  Captain  Skunk  von  Skee 
Was  killed  by  a  Yankee  captain, 

And  Yankee  treachery. 


61 


LITTLE  WAR  MOTHERS. 

WHEN  you  look  at  his  picture  and  your  eyes 

Are  dimmed  and  mighty  wet, 
And  it  seems  as  though  your  trembling  hands 

Could  reach  and  touch  him  yet : 
When  you  faintly  call  and  he  answers  not 

Your  supplicating  prayer, 
Remember  his  last  thought  was  You : 

I  know — for  I  was  there. 

When  the  day  is  done  and  the  hearth-fire  glows, 

And  you  slowly  knit  and  knit ; 
And  your  furtive  eyes  from  the  embers  rise 

To  where  he  used  to  sit: 
And  you  feel  he  never  can  slip  up 

And  kiss  you  unaware, 
Remember  his  last  word  was  You : 

I  know — for  I  was  there. 

When  your  dear  brave  heart  is  breaking — 

And  life  is  'reft  of  joy ; 
And  only  the  spark  of  memory — 

The  face  of  a  boy — your  boy: 
May  the  good  God  hover  over  you, 

And  touch  your  silvered  hair, 
And  tell  you  what  I  've  tried  to  tell : 

He  knows — for  He  was  there. 
62 


INTERRUPTED  CHOW. 

I'VE  had  some  mighty  narrow  calls — 

Some  close  shaves  not  a  few, 
But  one  of  the  fairly  closest 

I'll  now  narrate  to  you. 

'Twas  midnight — hush !  the  plot  grows  thick- 
Crowd  close,  and  hold  your  breath — 

'Twas  midnight — and  the  slum-cart  came 
Upon  its  round  of  death. 

(It  isn't  really  that  the  slum 

Was  quite  as  bad  as  that, 
But  the  playful  Boche  so  often  dropped 

A  shell  where  it  was  at.) 

'Twas  midnight — and  our  appetites 

Were  whetted  large  and  keen, 
As  trench  feed,  once  a  day,  must  leave 

An  interval  between. 

And  so  we  sought  the  buzzy-cart, 

"Mess-kits  alert"  and  found 
It  standing  in  a  quiet  spot 

Where  never  came  a  sound — 
63 


Excepting  that  of  bursting  shells 

Across  the  field  a  way, 
(But  as  I  said  before,  the  Boche 

Is  very  given  to  play). 

All  innocent  and  hungry-like 

And  empty  to  the  core, 
I  came  upon  that  buzzy-cart, 

With  never  thought  of  war. 

More  ealm,  beneficent  and  mild — 
More  free  from  things  of  strife — 

I  promise  you  I  never  was 
In  all  my  mortal  life. 

The  air  was  fair,  the  stars  were  out, 

The  mocking-bird  sang  clear ; 
The  poppies  bloomed,  the  sergeants  fumed, 

And  food  was  very  near. 

When  suddenly  the  ground  gave  way — 

It  seemed  a  mile  or  more — 
And  the  whole  adjacent  landscape  leapt 

To  heaven  with  a  soar. 

Earth,  rocks  and  stars  commingling 

In  a  swirling  mass  arose, 
Where  I,  recumbent  in  the  hole, 

Assumed  an  easy  pose. 

And  when  I  found  that  I  was  there — 
Both  arms,  both  legs,  and  head, 

I  picked  me  up  and  cogitated 
Why  I  wasn't  dead. 

64 


For  information  looked  I  'round 

North,  south  and  east  and  west — 
But  the  good  platoon  had  up  and  cleared 

Some  several  feet  with  zest. 

(And  the  strangest  phase  of  the  whole  strange  thing, 

For  me  to  understand, 
Was  that  when  I  got  up  I  had 

My  mess-kit  in  my  hand.) 

And  there  I  stood  and  gazed  me  down 

Upon  the  hole  and  mud, 
And  found  I  was  alive  because 

That  blamed  shell  was  a  "dud." 

A  dud 's  a  shell  that  fails  to  burst — 

Whose  crater's  microscopic — 
And  as  I'd  just  sunk  down  in  it, 

My  Fates  were  philanthropic — 

For  had  the  bally  thing  gone  off — 

Instead  of  sitting  jake — 
You'd  ne'er  have  found  my  scattered  parts 

With  a  hair-comb  or  a  rake. 

You'd  ne'er  have  found  your  humble  slave— 

For,  sprinkled  east  and  west, 
My  sad  remains  would  scarce  have  bulged 

The  pocket  of  your  vest. 

A  finger  in  Benares — 

A  toe  in  Timbuctoo — 
And  on  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon 

A  portion  of  my  shoe. 
65 


An  eye  on  Kinchinjanga — 

To  greet  the  snow-peaked  morn; 

An  ear  at  Cape  Lopatka, 

And  my  dog-tag  at  the  Horn. 


66 


S.  0.  S. 
(Service  of  Supply.) 

THERE'S  an  S.  0.  S.  behind  the  Lines 

That  feeds  us  shells  and  hardtack, 
And  guns  and  clothes  and  beans  and  things, 

And  heals  our  wounds  and  pain. 
There's  an  S.  0.  S.  across  the  seas 

That  knits  for  us  and  writes  to  us, 
Buys  bonds  and  whoops  it  up  for  us, 

And  cheers  us  011  again. 

There's  an  S.  0.  S.  behind  the  Lines, 

We  could  not  do  without  it : 
Just  go  and  ask  the  Army, 

If  you  'd  know  the  reasons  why. 
There's  an  S.  0.  S.  across  the  seas, 

And  if  you  ever  doubt  it, 
Just  go  and  ask  a  soldier, 

Who  will  promptly  black  your  eye. 


67 


THE  GAS-PROOF  MULE. 

I  'VE  heard  the  cat  hath  nine  lives, 

The  hen  and  worm  I've  seen, 
But  a  genuine,  long  eared,  gas-proof  mule 

Is  the  toughest  thing  they  wean. 

Each  night  he  hauled  the  water-cart — 
(And  to  know  what  Water  means, 

You  have  to  see  a  trench -bound  bunch 
When  filling  their  canteens). 

However,  no  digression  now, 

But  straightway  to  my  story, 
And  I  '11  paint  that  black  mule  white 

And  crowned  with  a  crown  of  glory. 

We  crowded  'round  the  faucets — 

On  each,  six  waited  turns — 
The  thirstiest  crew  I  ever  knew — 

With  the  ingrowing  thirst  that  burns. 

And  all  was  peace  and  quiet — 

The  pause  before  the  storm — 
When  the  distant,  whirling,  demon  shriek 

Of  the  G.  I.  Cans  took  form. 
68 


And  when  the  third  one  got  our  range, 

With  haste,  but  dignity, 
We  sought  the  dugouts  'cross  the  road, 

Calm,  though  precipitously. 

But  the  fastest  thing  I've  seen  on  legs, 
And  I  've  seen  the  best,  at  that. 

Was  the  water-mule  when  he  took  the  road 
At  a  hundred  in  nothing  flat. 

Whether  he  headed  for  gay  Paree — 

For  Brussels  or  Berlin — 
We  didn't  stop  to  figure  out — 

But  he  sure  was  headed  in. 

We  only  thought  of  our  thirst  next  day, 

And  a  song  we'd  heard  afar, 
Of  the  farm  recruit  who  bade  good-bye 

To  his  "mule  with  the  old  hee-haw." 

Well,  all  that  night  they  threw  us  gas 

And  high  explosive  shells, 
And  four  long  hours  we  wore  our  masks, 

To  ward  the  murderous  smells. 

And  when  the  first  white  streak  of  dawn 

Told  "Stand-to"  was  begun, 
We  stumbled  back  and  took  our  posts 

To  wait  our  friend  the  Hun. 

The  Hun  did  not  appear,  but  gas 
Thick  clothed  both  hill  and  dale 

In  clouds  and  sheets  of  dead-man's  drab, 
And  down  in  the  deepest  vale — 
69 


With  perfect  poise  and  nonchalance, 
Sang-froid  and  savoir-faire, 

Browsed  that  fool  mule,  capaciously, 
With  never  thought  or  care. 


70 


INFANTRY  OF  THE  WORLD  WAR, 

THEY  shall  tell  of  the  Arms  resplendent— 
The  men  who  dared  the  air; 

They  shall  tell  of  the  work  of  the  mighty  guns 
Where  the  far  horizons  flare: 

They  shall  tell  the  tale  of  the  Centaurs- 
Each  rear  and  flanking  drive — 

And  the  song  of  the  Service  of  Supply, 
That  kept  them,  all  alive. 

And  when  they  seem  to  have  finished, 

And  ye  think  that  the  chant  is  done, 
They  will  tell  the  talc  of  the  tramping  men 

In  the  sweat  of  a  torrid  sun. 
They  will  tell  the  tale  of  the  marching  men 

Who  plod  the  live-long  night, 
To  reach  the  crest  at  the  break  o'  dawn 

When  the  Nations  go  to  fight. 

They  will  tell  the  tale  of  the  tired  men 

Beneath  a  straining  load ; 
Mile  by  mile  with  lunging  step 

And  glassy  stare  on  the  road. 
They  will  tell  the  tale  of  the  front-line  trench, 

And  the  one  cold  meal  at  night, 
And  the  terrible  song  of  the  bursting  shells, 

And  the  flares'  uncanny  light. 
71 


They  will  tell  the  tale  of  the  moving  ranks 

When  the  zero  hour  lifts, 
And  the  khaki  lines  leap  forward 

In  the  face  of  the  steel-shod  drifts. 
Where  the  great  shots  split  asunder, 

And  clutter  hill  and  plain 
With  the  weary  bodies  of  the  men 

Who  may  not  march  again. 

And  so  for  a  wide  World's  wonder, 

And  the  ages  yet  to  be, 
They  will  sing  in  deathless  numbers 

The  song  of  the  Infantry. 
They  will  slowly  close  the  volume — 

The  story  fully  told, 
And  a  tear  shall  fall  on  the  cover, 

Whose  letters  are  flaming  gold. 


72 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  FRANCE. 

THE  flowers  of  France  are  blooming 

Upon  this  bright  June  day, 
The  flowers  of  France  are  fragrant 

And  smiling  swing  and  sway, 
(For  what  is  death  and  carnage 

A  dozen  miles  away?) 

The  flowers  of  France  are  blooming 
Among  the  wheat  and  grass — 

The  scarlet  headed  poppies 
That  nod  you  as  you  pass, 

And  the  blue  cornflowers'  brilliant  hue, 
And  the  daisies  in  a  mass. 

The  flowers  of  France  are  blooming 
And  beckoning  in  the  breeze, 

And  laughing  in  the  sunshine, 
And  bending  to  the  bees, 

(But  the  wooden  crosses  in  a  row — 
Oh  what  know  they  of  these?) 

The  flowers  of  France  are  blooming 

In  every  rainbow  shade, 
And  as  a  rainbow  is  an  arch 

By  tears  of  heaven  made, 
I  wonder  if  the  flowers  of  France 

Are  the  tears  that  France  has  paid  ? 
73 


A  FIRST-CLASS  PRIVATE. 

I  haven't  a  worry  or  a  care — 

My  mind's  "at  ease"  and  furled: 

For  I'm  a  First-class  Private, 
And  I'm  Sitting  on  the  World. 

The  Loot,  before  the  whole  platoon, 

He  up  and  called  me  forth 
To  drill  my  squad,  "Squads  east"  and  "west,1 

Not  mentioning  south  and  north. 
To  drill  my  squad,  "Squads  'round-about," 

For  all  the  World  to  see — 
But  I'm  a  First-class  Private  and 

That's  good  enough  for  me. 

The  Loot  he  is  a  dandy  man 

And  all  that  kind  of  thing, 
And  I  know  he  wants  to  see  how  I 

A  corporal's  job  could  swing: 
But  back  here  in  a  "rest  town" 

It  just  means  dirty  work, 
And  /  must  take  the  bawling-out 

For  what  the  squad  may  shirk. 

'Tis  I  they'd  turn  and  eye  with  scorn 
If  some  gun  wasn  't  clean ; 

74 


"Tis  I  would  play  the  wet  nurse 
For  a  rookie  none  could  wean: 

And  if  a  pair  of  frozen  shoes 
Makes  Smith  miss  reveille, 

It  isn't  Smith  or  "Sunny  France," 
It's  me,  yes  dammit,  me. 

So  forth  I  take  the  Squad  to  drill, 

With  ne  'er  a  fault  or  slip ; 
But  a  smile  is  in  my  glance,  forsooth, 

And  a  jest  is  on  my  lip, 
Akidding  with  each  friend  o'mine — 

And  the  Loot  was  never  fain 
To  try  to  make  a  non-com 

Of  Private  Me  again. 

Oh  nothing,  oh  no  nothing 
May  your  resolution  shake, 

When  you're  a  First-class  Private, 
And  you  know  you're  Sitting  Jake. 


75 


BIRDS  OF  BATTLE. 

KEATS  sings  in  peerless  stanzas 

To  the  lovely  Nightingale — 
And  Shelley  tells  of  the  Skylark 

Above  the  summer  gale — 
But  I  to  the  Birds  of  Battle 

Needs  lift  my  numbers  frail. 

For  far  by  the  out-flung  wires, 

Where  the  shell-torn  tree  stumps  stand, 

And  over  the  barren,  hole-strewn  tracks 
Of  the  wastes  of  No  Man's  Land, 

In  the  morning  light  and  the  black  of  night, 
The  Birds  of  Battle  stand. 

No  shrieking  shots  may  quell  them — 

Nor  gloom  nor  storm  nor  rain, 
As  out  of  the  crash  or  stillness 

A  wondrous,  shrill  refrain 
Cuts  clear  and  glad  and  lithesome 

Above  the  death-strewn  plain. 

The  weary  heavens  welcome, 

And  echo  back  the  song, 
And  weary  soldiers  linger, 

And  pause  to  listen  long 
To  the  one  glad  cry  in  a  war-torn  sky, 

That  holds  so  much  of  wrong. 
76 


ONLY  FOR  YOU. 

THE  torturous  hike  up  the  hill  road, 

Plowing  through  snow  and  mud ; 
The  poor  weary  arches  breaking — 

The  socks  that  are  wet  with  our  blood : 
The  terrible,  binding,  burning  strap 

That's  cutting  our  shoulder  through — 
And  our  parched  lips  stammer,  "My  Country, 

For  you  and  only  for  you." 

The  slight  and  the  slur  and  the  nagging 

We  must  take  from  a  rowdy  or  cad ; 
And  we  simply  salute  and  say  "Yes  sir," 

And  pretend  that  we  never  feel  mad: 
Though  our  heart  is  a  forest  of  hatred — 

And  justice  seems  hidden  from  view — 
And  we  mutter,  "For  you,  oh  my  Country — 

For  you,  yea,  and  only  for  you." 

When  all  evening  long  the  guns'  reddened  glares 

Turn  night  into  hellish  day, 
Till  in  Berserker  rage  their  silver  bursts  cut 

The  drab  of  the  dawn 's  growing  gray : 
When  over  the  top  we  are  starting  again — 

Full  knowing  the  thing  that  we  do — 
We  murmur,  "For  you,  oh  my  Country — 

For  you,  aye  and  only  for  you." 
11 


COOTIES. 

SOME  people  call  'em  Totos— 
Some  people  call  'em  Lice ; 

Some  people  call   'em  several  things 
That  really  aren  't  nice ; 

But  the  Soldier  calls  'em  ' '  Cooties, ' ' 
So  "Cooties"  must  suffice. 

We've  met  the  dear  Mosquito — 

We've  met  the  festive  Fly- 
It  seems  to  me  we've  seen  the  Flea 

That  jumpeth  far  and  high; 
Yea,  we  have  known  various  bugs — 
Though  not  the  reason  why. 

But  when  you're  in  the  trenches 

And  cannot  take  a  bath, 
As  one  canteen  of  water 

Is  all  one  day  one  hath, 
You  raise  the  comely  Cooties — 

Who  raise,  in  turn,  your  wrath. 

You  can't  escape  the  Cooties 

By  day  nor  yet  by  night. 
No  G.  I.  Can  alarms  them, 

Nor  other  sound  of  fight. 

78 


Not  even  Gas  affects  them — 
Which  doesn't  seem  just  right. 

You  may  not  eat,  you  may  not  sleep, 

You  may  not  bat  an  eye: 
You  may  not  duck  a  six-inch  shell 

That's  singing  gaily  by, 
But  that  a  Cootie,  like  the  Poor, 

Is  with  you — very  nigh. 

They  bite  you  singly  and  in  squads, 

They  have  a  whole  parade ; 
They  form  a  skirmish  line  and  sweep 

Across  each  hill  and  glade ; 
But  seek  their  dugouts  when  you  think 

Your  grip  is  firmly  laid. 

It  does  no  good  to  curse  'em — 

They  cannot  hear  or  talk. 
It  does  no  good  to  chase  'em — 

To  still-hunt  or  to  stalk. 
The  only  thing  is  hand-grenades, 

At  which,  'tis  said,  they  balk. 

Oh  Cooties,  little  Cooties, 
You  have  no  sense  of  shame ; 

You  are  not  fair,  you  are  not  square, 
You  do  not  play  the  game — 

But  east  and  west  and  south  and  north 
Is  spread  afar  your  fame. 


79 


OLD  FUSEE. 
(Rifle  number  366915.,  Springfield  model  1903.) 

I  REALLY  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee— 

Where  the  land  is  scarred  and  peeled, 
And  the  broken  battlefield 
Bears  its  red  and  deadly  yield — 

Wearily. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee— 

To  the  wind  and  dew  and  rain 
Of  a  shorn  and  shotted  plain, 
Till  stranger  hands  again 

Discover  thee. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee— 

To  the  clinging,  clogging  dust — • 
To  the  all-destroying  crust 
Of  a  clawing,  gnawing  rust — 

Unmercifully. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 
Old  Fusee— 
80 


But  they've  plugged  me  good  and  hard, 
So  I  quit  you,  trusty  pard, 
As  I  creep  back  rather  marred, 
To  old  Blightee. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee— 

With  your  bore  a  brilliant  sheen, 
And  your  metals  black  and  clean, 
Where  your  brown  striped  stock  and  lean 

Gleams  tigerishly. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee— 

For  the  wanton  weather's  hate, 
And  careless  hands  to  desecrate 
Barrel,  bolt  and  butt  and  plate, 

Unthinkingly. 

I  really  hate  to  leave  you, 

Old  Fusee — 

And  I  bear  a  double  pain 
As  I  pause  to  turn  again 
Where  I  left  you  on  the  plain, 

Unwillingly. 


81 


THE  COLORS  OF  BLIGHTY. 

The  shades  of  red  an'  white  an'  blue 
Mean  rather  more  to  me  an'  you, 
Than  just  parades  an'  bands  an'  such 
And  hollerin'  loud  an'  talking  much. 

The  wounds  are  dark  and  red— 
All  jagged-red  in  Blighty: 
And  untamed  hearts  are  red 
Where,  stretching  bed  on  bed, 
Lies  lax  each  weary  head, 
In  Blighty. 

The  walls  are  blank  and  white — 

All  fresh  and  white  in  Blighty: 
And  cheeks  are  gaunt  and  white, 
Where  through  the  endless  night 
They  fight  the  second  fight, 
In  Blighty. 

Outside  the  skies  are  blue — 

Soft,  cloud-flecked  blue  o'er  Blighty 
But  clear,  relentless  blue 
Of  purpose  steeled  anew 
Lies  there  revealed  to  you 

In  every  eye  in  Blighty. 
82 


The  shades  of  red  an'  white  an'  blue 
Mean  rather  more  to  me  an'  you, 
Than  just  parades  an'  bands  an'  such 
And  hollerin'  loud  an'  talking  much. 


83 


WHEN  NURSE  COMES  IN. 
(Convalescent  stage.) 

THE  stories  sure  are  rich  and  rare, 
They'd  strike  you  blind,  they'd  turn  your  hair, 
They  're  dark  as  coal  down  in  the  bin — 
Till  Nurse  conies  in. 

The  language  is  an  awful  hue, 
Astreak  with  crimson  shades  and  blue ; 
'Twould  scorch  a  mammoth's  leather  skin — 
Till  Nurse  comes  in. 

Words  run  the  gamut  of  the  trench — 
They  beat  old  Mustard  Gas  for  stench, 
They  rise  with  oscillating  din — 
Till  Nurse  comes  in. 

The  cussin's  quaint  and  loud  and  strong, 
Imported  stuff,  that  don't  belong 
In  dictionaries  fat  or  thin— 
Till  Nurse  comes  in. 

And  then  you'd  be  surprised  to  hear 
The  change  of  pace,  the  shift  o'  gear, 
The  dainty  tales  that  just  begin- 
When  Nurse  comes  in. 

84 


CHARLIE  CHAPLIN  IN  BLIGHTY. 

THE  mess-hall  windows  blanketed 

To  bar  the  western  light — 
The  tables  cleaned  and  cleared  away, 
And  bench  by  bench  in  close  array 
Five  hundred  convalescents  sway 

To  catch  the  caption  bright. 

And  there  are  men  with  helpless  legs, 

And  torn  chest  and  back ; 
And  men  with  arms  in  sling  and  splint, 
And  one  poor  eye  that  bears  no  glint, 
And  muscles  limp  or  turned  to  flint— 

And  souls  upon  the  rack. 

They  came  from  Chateau  Thierry — 

From  Fere-en-Tardenois — 
From  Soissons,  Oulchy-le-Chateau, 
From  Rheims  and  Fismes,  where  blow  by  blow, 
'Cross  Marne  and  Ourcq  and  Vesle  aflow 

They  hammered  them  afar. 

And  now  upon  the  screen  is  thrown 

An  old  familiar  form : 
'Tis  Charlie  of  the  strong  appeal, 
At  skating-rink  or  riot  meal, 

85 


And  every  mirth-producing  reel 
Awakes  the  farthest  dorm. 

The  aching  head,  the  splintered  arm, 

The  weary,  dragging  feet ; 
The  wound  that  took  a  month  to  drain — 
The  everlasting,  gnawing  pain — 
Are  all  forgot  and  gone  again 

When  Charlie  strikes  the  street. 

Your  esoteric  shrug  and  sneer 

And  call  him  crude  and  quaint ; 
But  we  who've  seen  him  "over  here"- 
Who've  heard  the  laugh  that  brings  the  tear— 
Who've  heard  the  bellowing  roar  and  cheer — 

We  call  him  Charles  the  Saint. 


86 


TWO  WORLDS. 

HERE  in  the  Jardin  ties  Plantes  of  Nantes 

1  sit  in  the  flickering  shade, 
Watching  the  scampering  children  play — 

And  the  way  of  a  man  and  a  maid — 
And  the  noble  women  of  France  in  the  black 

Of  a  Nation  unafraid. 

The  lace  of  the  shadows  across  the  paths 
Where  the  warm  sun  niters  through, 

And  the  open  vista  between  the  trees, 
With  the  swan  pond  half  in  view, 

And  the  flowers  and  sloping  lawns  and  the  pines 
'Neath  an  arch  of  Brittany's  blue. 

The  air  is  soft  as  a  day  in  June, 

The  blossoms  manifold 
Throw  streaks  and  patches  of  rainbow  hue 

Across  the  green  and  gold, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  witchery 

Entwine  you  in  their  hold. 

And  it  comes  to  me,  Can  it  really  be 

But  two  full  moons  have  fled, 
Since  I  limped  from  a  scarred  and  riven  field 

Where  lay  the  newly  dead, 
87 


Bathed  in  the  light  of  a  splendid  fight. 
And  blotched  with  their  blood's  own  red. 

A  world  of  crimson  slaughter 

Where  the  grim  locked  legions  sway — 

And  the  mad  machine  guns  whistle 
Their  endless  roundelay — 

And  the  sinister  sound  of  the  thundering  pound 
Of  the  great  guns  night  and  day. 

Night  and  day,  night  and  day, 

With  scarce  a  pause  between, 
As  out  of  the  empty  dark  a  voice 

From  the  farthest  hills  unseen, 
Comes  whirling,  swirling,  shrieking  down 

Where  the  helpless  front  lines  lean. 


The  air  is  soft  as  a  morn  in  June — 

The  filmy  shadows  sway ; 
And  only  the  joyous  music 

Of  the  prattle  of  children  at  play, 
And  the  gentle  rustle  of  whispering  leaves 

That  tell  of  the  closing  day. 


88 


EMBARKATION  HOME. 

IF  you're  a  homebound  soldier 

Who 's  done  his  little  best, 
And  you  are  going  'board  the  boat 

At  St.  Nazaire  or  Brest, 
Bordeaux  or  any  other  port, 

Steam-up  and  headed  west : 

If  you  are  full  o'  the  joy  o'  life 
And  "pep"  and  all  that  stuff; 

And  the  ozone  permeates  your  soul 
And  makes  you  gay  and  bluff, 

Don't  turn  and  yell,  "Who  won  the  Warf- 
The  M  Ps,"— Can  that  guff. 

For  the  M  Ps  are  a  sacred  caste 

That  boss  the  city  street 
A  hundred  miles  behind  the  Lines 

Where  dangers  never  greet, 
Nor  roaming  shells  come  swirling  by, 

Nor  surging  first  waves  meet. 

So  if  the  long,  tense  session 

Of  soul-engulfing  war, 
And  "Prussian"  discipline  and  rule, 

And  heart-enslaving  law 
89 


Say,  "Open  wide  the  throttle 
Of  lung  and  throat  and  jaw" — 

Repress  that  natural  impulse, 
For  you  're  not  human — yet : 

Sedately  up  the  gangplank  walk, 
Eyes  front  and  lips  tight  set, 

Or  you'll  come  back  and  spend  six  weeks 
In  a  mud-dump,  nice  and  wet. 

The  wind  is  blowing  'cross  the  bow, 

The  first  smoke  lags  alee — 
The  sun  that's  broken  through  the  clouds 

Is  dancing  on  the  sea, 
So,  homebound  soldier,  watch  your  step, 

And  take  advice  from  me. 


90 


THE  STATUE  OF  LIBERTY. 

SING  of  the  Venus  de  Milo, 

The  lady  without  any  arms ; 
Sing  of  the  Venus  of  this  and  of  that, 

And  tell  of  their  marvelous  charms : 
Rave  of  your  wonderful  statues, 

In  divers  lands  here  o'er  the  sea, 
In  bushels  and  reams,  but  the  Girl  of  our  Dreams 

Is  our  godmother,  Miss  Liberty. 

Its  contour  may  not  be  perfection — 

Its  technique  we  really  don't  know — 
If  you  ever  asked,  "Who  was  the  artist?" 

It  would  come  as  a  terrible  blow. 
But  to  us  it  is  home,  friends  and  Country, 

To  us  it  means  all  that  is  best, 
'Tis  the  first  that  lifts  out  of  the  waters 

Of  "Our  little  Gray  Home  in  the  AVest." 

'Tis  the  first  on  that  endless  horizon 

Where  the  clouds  meet  the  wind  driven  spume, 
And  the  scavenger  gulls  wing  to  greet  us 

From  out  of  the  gathering  gloom — 
'Tis  the  first  that  calls  beckoning  to  us 

Through  the  mist  of  the  swaggering  sea — 
"Oh  lay  down  your  guns  my  knight-errant  sons, 

And  come  back  to  the  bosom  of  me. ' ' 
91 


PART  II. 
PRE-WAR  POEMS. 


TO  FRANCE— 1917. 

THE  sea  that  kisses  France's  shore, 
It  beats  on  yours  and  mine. 

Her  love  and  faith  and  chivalry, 
That  sparkle  as  her  wine, 

With  all  our  faith  and  all  our  love 
Commingling  combine. 

The  colors  of  the  flag  of  France 

Are  ours  by  hue  and  hue: 
The  blazing  red  of  courage — 

The  white  of  purpose  true, 
And  constancy  and  loyalty 

Awoven  in  the  blue. 

The  spirit  and  the  soul  of  France, 

That  shatter  fetters  free, 
They  came  to  us  in  darkest  days 

To  weld  our  destiny ; 
And  so  with  sword  in  hand  we  come 

To  pay  our  debt  to  Thee. 

To  pay  our  debt  a  hundredfold — 
Friend  of  our  new-born  years. 

To  march  with  you  and  fight  with  you, 
Till  rise  the  final  cheers — 
95 


And  hand  in  hand,  o'er  a  grave-strewn  land, 
We  blend  our  mingled  tears. 

Where  blends  our  blood  as  once  it  did 

In  days  of  a  long  gone  by, 
When  the  Bourbon  lilies  leapt  and  gleamed 

Among  the  Stars  on  high — 
And  the  white  and  crimson  bands  of  dawn 

Rose  in  the  eastern  sky. 

And  the  white  and  crimson  bands  of  dawn, 
And  the  Stars  that  glow  and  glance, 

Shall  girdle  them  their  armor  on, 
With  buckler,  sword  and  lance, 

And  leap  to  the  charge  and  sweep  the  field 
With  the  Trois  Couleurs  of  France. 


If  right  is  might  and  Honor  lives — 
Oh  Sister  'cross  the  seas — 

And  Liberty  and  Justice  still 
Hold  high  commune  with  these ; 

A  four-fold  vengeance  waits  the  Hun, 
And  his  iniquities. 


96 


THE  PACIFIST. 

COWARDS  and  curs  and  traitors, 

Fatuous  dreaming  fools — 
Binding  us,  stripped,  for  the  madman 

Nurtured  of  dastard  schools, 
Where  right  of  might  and  who  springs  first 

Are  the  only  known  rules. 

Well  fed,  well  housed  and  sleek  and  smug, 
Full  pursed  and  full  of  pride — 

Your  fields  are  green,  your  lanes  are  fair 
Where  peaceful  homes  abide, 

And  your  children  play  by  sunny  streams 
That  laughing  seaward  glide. 

What  Primal  Power  tells  you  eat 
To  the  ends  of  your  belly-greed — 

What  holds  your  fields  with  harvests  full, 
And  answers  every  need — 

And  bids  your  bairns  play  laughingly 
With  never  care  or  heed? 

The  answer,  Fool,  is  written  large 

In  words  of  blazing  light — 
They  are  rewards  of  dwelling  in 

A  Land  of  kingly  might, 
97 


That  grants  you  surety  and  wealth 
And  guards  you,  day  and  night. 

And  whence,  Fool,  came  its  splendid  strength — 

And  why,  and  how  and  when? 
In  a  World  of  strife  and  reddened  knife 

Did  it  rise  by  tongue  and  pen  ? 
No,  Dolt,  but  by  the  strong  right  arms, 

The  arms  of  its  fighting  men. 

And  Ye,  Ye  would  sit  with  folded  hands, 

Agaze  into  Heaven's  blue, 
With  sanctimonious  murmurings 

Of  what  the  Lord  will  do ; 
While  your  neighbor  and  your  neighbor's  son 

Go  forth  and  fight  for  you. 

For  you,  you  cur,  and  your  belly-need — 

For  your  hearth  and  kith  and  kin : 
For  your  harvest  and  your  banking-house 

Where  you  shovel  the  shekels  in, 
Till  the  labor  has  hardened  your  hands  and  heart, 

And  your  soul  is  parchment  skin. 

Eeligion  cannot  cover 

A  dog  whose  liver  is  white. 
Your  Christ,  with  righteous  anger, 

Smote  hard  to  left  and  right 
The  usurers.     And  never  said 

He  was  too  proud  to  fight. 

When  we  are  another  Belgium 
And  the  land  with  blood  is  dyed, 
98 


And  your  homes  are  burned  and  your  women  raped, 

And  ye  know  that  ye  have  lied — 
Mayhap  ye  will  say  with  your  final  gasp 

That  ye  are  satisfied. 


99 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF   '17. 

On  the  entry,  in  1917,  of  the  United  States  into  the 
World  War. 

NOT  with  vain  boasts  and  mouthings — 

Not  with  jesting  light- 
But  for  Duty  and  Love  of  Country 

Come  we  in  armor  dight. 

Not  for  our  own  advantage — 

Not  for  Adventure's  lust- 
Not  for  the  hope  of  honor — 

But  a  Cause  that  is  high  and  just. 

Not  for  the  praise  of  our  fellow-man, 

Or  greed  or  gain  or  creed, 
But  for  the  sight  of  the  suffering  eyes 

That  call  us  in  their  need. 

(The  withering,  mad  machine-guns 

Shall  drop  us  one  by  one, 
Where  the  red,  red  streams  of  No  Man's  Land 

Gleam  'neath  a  blood-red  sun.) 

(The  shriek  of  the  spraying  shrapnel— 
The  roar  and  the  blinding  glare, 
100 


And  the  gaping  crater's  dripping  fangs 
Shall  ope  and  find  us  there.) 

Not  in  the  strong  man 's  tyranny 

Or  the  pride  of  worldly  things, 
But  guarding  clean  traditions, 

Unstained  by  the  hands  of  kings. 

Not  with  sudden  yearning, 

But  knowing  the  risks  we  dare, 
We  board  the  waiting  galleons 

For  a  Nation  brave  and  fair. 

(For  a  Nation  bearing  the  battle's  brunt — 
The  strength  of  the  Vandals'  blast— 

With  an  even  keel  and  a  steady  wheel, 
And  her  Colors  nailed  to  the  mast.) 

Not  with  hectic  fire, 

But  weighing  the  thing  we  do, 
We  cross  to  the  coasts  of  the  fighting  hosts — 

To  the  France  our  Fathers  knew. 

Brothers  in  blood  of  old — and  now- 
Together  to  hunt  and  slay, 
Till  we  drive  the  Beast  to  his  bone-strewn  lair- 
An  eye  for  an  eye — a  hair  for  a  hair — 
And  we  leave  him  broken  and  bleeding  there 
Forever  and  a  day. 

Not  with  vain  boasts  and  mouthings — 

But  in  silent,  grim  parade — 
We  come,  Lord  God  of  Battles, 

To  the  last  and  great  Crusade. 
10] 


PART  III. 
OTHER  VERSES. 


MY  SAPPHIRE. 

I  HAVE  a  sapphire  rich  and  fair 

And  soft  as  a  velvet  sky, 
When  only  the  stars  are  shining  low 
And  the  heavens  hold  a  mystic  glow 
And  a  hushed  world  stands  agaze  to  know 

The  wonderful  Whence  and  Why. 

I  have  a  sapphire  that  I  turn 

In  the  dark  of  somber  days: 
And  the  darting  tongues  of  flickering  blue 
Flash  deep  and  rare  in  wondrous  hue, 
Sharp  as  the  lightning,  pure  as  the  dew, 

And  true  as  m 'lady's  gaze. 

I  have  a  sapphire  that  I  hold 

Beneath  the  chandelier: 
And  the  phosphor  of  its  azure  gleam 
Sweeps  clear  as  the  depths  of  the  mountain  stream 
Where  the  Sun-god  hurls  his  molten  beam 

In  the  morn  of  the  golden  year. 

I  have  a  sapphire  I  adore — 

Of  varying  whims  and  moods — 
Blue-black  it  lies  with  never  a  mark 
Across  the  dim  unfathomed  dark, 
105 


Till  there  lifts  the  glow  of  a  tiny  spark — 
And  again  it  sullen  broods. 

I  have  a  sapphire  that  I  bend 

'Neath  the  light  of  burning  rays: 
And  the  flames  spread  forth  a  fairy  fire, 
Seething  and  writhing  and  leaping  higher 
Till  they  come  to  the  land  of  my  heart's  desire, 
In  a  glittering,  blinding  blaze. 

I  have  a  sapphire  that  I  hold, 

When  the  goal  seems  far  away : 
When  the  lee  shore  churns  in  saffron  spume, 
And  the  fluctuant  ocean's  plume  on  plume 
Bears  down  to  a  rock-ribbed  hidden  doom, 

And  the  sky  is  ashen  gray. 

I  have  a  sapphire  that  I  turn ; 

And  the  clouds  break,  and  the  wine 
Of  a  glorious  sun  spreads  east  and  west 
To  where  the  Islands  of  the  Blest 
Raise  verdant  shores  at  my  behest, 

And  a  golden  world  is  mine. 

Oh  Sapphire  from  a  distant  vale 
Where  the  white  Himalayas  tower: 

Where  the  Kashmir  lakes  are  royal  Hue, 

And  passions  strong  and  hearts  are  true, 

All  these  are  met  and  blent  in  you, 
A  princely  heir  and  dower. 


106 


THE  TWINS. 

OUT  of  the  wonderful  nowhere, 

Into  the  lowty  here ; 
Laughing  and  loving  and  lithesome, 

And  radiating  cheer. 

Twin  rose-buds  o'  Killarney  hue — 

Fragrant  and  fresh  and  fair — 
And  eyes  of  blue,  wide-gazed  and  true, 

And  tawny  yellow  hair. 

And  smiles  as  sweet  as  any  meet 

In  pleasant  paths  above : 
And  golden  laughter  that  echoes  after, 

To  finger  the  chords  of  love. 

Two  wee  buds  o'  Killarney  hue 

That  beckon  and  beguile — 
And  'neath  your  spell  we're  learning  well 

There  is  something  still  worth  while. 

Though  drab  days  break  and  drab  thoughts  wake 

O'er  fields  of  sleet  and  snow, 
There's  sunshine  rare  just  everywhere — 

For  you  have  taught  us  so. 


107 


ON  SENDING  MY  BOOK  TO  AN 
ENGLISH  FRIEND. 

"IT'S  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings" — 

And  the  seas  are  wide  indeed, 
But  there  are  no  barriers  dividing 

The  Anglo-Saxon  creed. 
Fair  fighting  when  the  skies  are  lowering — 

Fair  peace  when  skies  are  clear — 
And  the  faith  of  fair  intentions,  unfaltering, 

And  the  heart  that  holds  no  fear. 

"It's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings" — 
And  Browning  never  said  a  thing  more  true, 

So  I  know  you  '11  know  the  spirit  that  impels  me 
To  send  this  little  messenger  to  you. 


108 


IMMORTAL  KEATS. 

MATCHLESS  bard  of  all  the  ages- 
Lyric  sounder  of  the  lyre — 

Wake  among  your  golden  echoes — 
Rise  amid  your  latent  fire — 

Tell  us,  Master  of  the  Muses — 
Sweetest  singer  ever  sung — 

By  what  law  of  Earth  or  Heaven 
Ye  were  called  away  so  young? 

By  what  law  of  God  or  Mammon — 
By  what  creed  of  land  or  sea — 

Was  a  weary  World  forsaken 
Of  the  mind  that  harbored  thee? 

Ere  that  wondrous  mind's  fruition 
Scarce  had  grown  to  the  tree. 

If  the  half-fledged  sapling  gave  us 
Melodies  past  human  praise — 

If  such  virgin  buddings  crowded 
Those  few  sad  and  glorious  days ; 

If  such  flowers,  barely  opened, 
Swept  us  in  a  wild  amaze — 

What,  Oh  Lord  and  Prince  of  Poesy, 
AVould  your  soul  have  given  to  men- 
109 


What  the  marvelous  meed  and  measure 
Of  your  pulsing,  choral  pen — 

Had  your  numbered  days  been  lengthened 
To  a  three  score  years  and  ten  ? 

As  through  mystic  lands  ye  led  us 
0  'er  the  paths  your  feet  had  gone : 

Pipes  of  Pan — and  fain  we  followed— 
Glad  and  willing  slave  and  pawn, 

Till  we  reached  the  fields  Elysian — 
Till  we  faced  the  gorgeous  dawn : 

Till  the  lanes  seemed  filled  with  roses — 

Roses  lipped  with  opal  dew: 
Till  the  vales  seemed  filled  with  incense — 

Incense  slowly  drifting  through : 
Till  the  seas  seemed  filled  with  grottoes — 

Grottoes  amber,  gold  and  blue : 

Till  the  songs  of  birds  rang  clearer 
And  the  sunshine  shone  more  rare, 

And  the  moon  above  the  meadows 
Gathered  love,  and  left  it  there ; 

And  the  swaying  stars  rose  whiter — 
And  the  World  was  very  fair : 

As  your  thoughts '  eternal  fountains, 

Shot  with  iridescent  gleams, 
Floating  down  through  glades  enchanted, 

On  the  breast  of  faery  streams, 
To  a  pearl-strewn  bay  of  beryl — 

Reached  the  haven  of  our  dreams. 

110 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 

FLAMMARION  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
Said  Heaven  was  a  hundred,  million,  billion  miles 

away. 

So  I  couldn't  contradict  them — it  wouldn't  do  at  all — 
But  they  had  never  heard  your  laughter  innocent 
and  gay. 

Flammarion  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
They  said  the  Milky  Way  was  fair  beyond  all  human 

ken: 
But  they  had  never  seen  your  face,  upturned,  aques- 

tioning — 
A  dainty  bit  of  rapture  in  a  leaden  world  o'  men. 

Flammarion  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
They  told  of  gorgeous  comets  and  their  manes  so 

bright  and  rare: 
But  comet  glow  could  never  show  the  living  threads 

of  light 

That  dance  and  gleam  in  th'  rippling  stream  and 
fragrance  of  your  hair. 

Flammarion  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
They  said  the  azure  ether  stretched  in  miles  of  lapis 
hue; 

111 


But  they  had  never  known  eyes  that  gaze  into  your 

soul 

In  longing  little  wonder  wells  of  limpid  gray  and 
blue. 

Flammarion  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
They  said  no  melody  could  match  the  singing  of  the 

spheres : 
But  they  had  never  heard  your  voice  ring  joyously  at 

play— 

The  music  of  a  weary  world  of  roil  and  toil  and 
tears. 

Flammarion  and  Kelvin  and  Herschel  every  one, 
They've  told  the  tale  of  the  double  stars,  and  their 

faith  the  eons  through — 
But  constant  though  they  be,  their  hearts  could  never 

know  the  love, 

The  yearning  burning  tender  love,  dear  child,  we 
bear  for  you. 


112 


GOD. 
I 

THEY  would  give  hands  to  Thee,  head  to  Thee,  feet 
to  Thee— 

They  who  are  blind : 
They  would  give  form  to  Thee,  fashion  Thee  manikin, 

After  their  kind. 

They    would    give    hate    to    Thee,    spite    to    Thee, 
jealousy— 

Thou  the  adored : 
Only  have  fear  in  Thee,  only  repel  Thee, 

Master  and  Lord. 

They  would  bring  shame  to  Thee,  even  in  worship — 

Each  empty  rite : 
Bigotry,  canting  and  sere  superstition, 

Knowing  no  light. 

Faiths  esoteric,  pedantic  and  recondite — 

Mystical  creeds: 
False  and  insipid  and  brutal  and  selfish — 

And  wrought  to  their  needs. 

They  whom  Ye  nurtured  from  primal  conceiving, 
And  ne'er  a  flaw — 
113 


They  know  Thee  not,  or  in  knowing,  reject  Thee, 
Thee  and  Thy  law. 

Saying,  "We  see  Thee  not,  come  to  us,  speak  to  us — 
Tangible  stand. 

Come  in  the  purple,  crowned,  robed  and  resplendent- 
Sceptre  in  hand. 

"Even  as  kings  have  done,  through  all  the  ages, 

Brave  to  behold — 
Fanfare  of  trumpets,  bejeweled  and  refulgent 

And  girdled  with  gold  : 

"  Or  in  a  chariot  welded  of  star-dust — 

Glittering  white — 
Pause  at  the  cloud-line  'mid  crashing  of  thunder 

And  blazing  of  light. 

"Rolling  Thy  voice  till  the  Pleiades  tremble — 

The  spheres  are  amoan ; 
The  Earth  for  a  footstool — the  outermost  planets 

Grouped  for  a  throne. 

' '  Thus  would  we  see  Thee,  acclaim  Thee,  and  worship 
Thee, 

Thou  in  Thy  might — 
Concrete,  conglomerate,  human  and  splendid — 

Aflame  in  our  sight. ' ' 


114 


II 


They  who  have  drunk  of  the  River  of  Knowledge 

Only  a  quaff, 
Pity  them,  Father  that  know  not  Thy  meaning, 

Children  who  laugh. 

Atoms  that  reek  not  the  wherefore  of  atoms — 

Dust  of  the  dust : 
Groping  in  darkness,  recusant  and  doubting — 

And  bearing  no  trust. 

They  would  make  mock  of  Thee,  saying  the  life-spark, 

Came  not  of  Thee  : 
Function  by  function  in  wonderful  unison — 

Each  mystery. 

Sunshine  and  rain-fall  and  food  to  their  needing, 

Air,  sea  and  land : 
Seed-time  and  fruit-time  and  harvest  and  gleaning — 

Made  to  their  hand. 

They  would  gainsay  Thee  by  calling  it  Nature, 

Calling  it  Chance : 
And  by  their  impotent  wonder,  Thy  glory, 

Only  enhance. 

But  when  in  mercy  the  last  word  is  spoken — 

When  the  gates  yawn; 
Father  of  Nations — take  Thou  Thy  children 

Into  the  dawn. 


115 


Crowning  Thy  marvelous  works  with  a  crowning- 
Ultimate — vast — 

Showing  compassion  and  loving  they  knew  not, 
E  'en  to  the  last. 


116 


THE  GOLDEN  DAY. 

HAVE  ye  a  day  that  bears  the  glare 

Of  the  flaming  morning  sun? 
Have  ye  a  day  the  mind  may  search, 

Weighing  what  ye  have  done? 

Have  ye  a  day  ye  are  satisfied 

Will  stand  the  acid  test— 
From  the  first  gray  strand  of  the  eastern  skies 

To  the  last  red  glow  in  the  west? 

Have  ye  a  day  ye  grappled  with 

And  hurled  in  mortal  throes, 
When,  'bove  the  white  horizon, 

The  Great  Occasion  rose  ? 

Mayhap  the  World  bore  witness 
To  the  things  of  your  Golden  Day : 

Mayhap  it  is  locked  from  the  gaze  of  men, 
And  ye've  thrown  the  key  away. 


117 


NOTES 


NOTES. 

TRENCHES 17 

French  Lorraine 17 

All  Lorraine  is  now  French,  but,  of  course,  it  was  not 
so  during  the  war. 

Kultur 18 

The  so-called  German  culture. 

BARB-WIRE  POSTS 19 

Herein  is  described  a  confnion  optical  illusion  or  phe 
nomenon  seen  by  all  soldiers,  old  and  young,  experienced 
or  green,  during  the  long  night  vigils  looking  through 
the  wires,  across  No  Man's  Land. 

Boche 19 

A  German. 

Hun 20 

A  German.  The  people  of  Germany  take  great  excep 
tion  to  being  called  "Huns,"  protesting  that  they  are 
not  of  this  stock.  After  the  defeat  of  Attila  and  his 
Huns  at  Chalons,  in  451  A.  D.,  by  the  combined  efforts  of 
the  Celts  themselves,  the  indigenous  people  of  France, 
the  Romans,  who  were  still  masters  of  the  country,  the 
Franks,  who  had  already  become  a  power  in  the  land, 
having  advanced  as  far  south  as  the  Somme,  and  the 
Visigoths,  who,  early  in  the  same  century,  had  estab 
lished  their  great  empire  in  southern  France  and  Spain ; 
after  this  great  battle  the  Huns  retreated  back  into 
121 


Germany,  where  many  of  their  descendants  must  still 
be,  but  of  course  the  majority  of  the  German  people  are 
not,  from  an  ethnological  standpoint,  Huns.  The  reason 
for  this  appelation  being  applied  to  them  is  simply  that 
when  a  people  have  the  attributes  of  a  Hun,  they  must 
expect  to  be  so  designated.  A  man  may  very  properly 
be  called  a  pig  without  any  misapprehension  that  he 
actually  travels  upon  four  hoofs.  However,  it  is  pos 
sible,  though  not  probable,  that  the  leopard  may  change 
his  spots;  and  time,  and  contact  with  civilization,  and 
a  democratic  form  of  government  may  eventually  eradi 
cate  the  present  very  marked  idiosyncrasies  of  the  Ger 
man  race. 

YOUR  GAS-MASK 22 

"full-field" 22 

The  full-field  pack,  consisting  of  blankets,  shelter-half, 
clothing,  extra  shoes,  etc.,  weighing  over  50  pounds,  on 
the  back  of  an  infantryman,  and  guaranteed  to  increase 
50  pounds  in  weight  every  five  kilometers  after  the  first 
ten  kilometer  mark  has  been  passed. 

full  marching-order 22 

The  full-field  pack  as  described  above,  plus  rifle,  cart 
ridge-belt  with  a  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition,  two 
bandoliers,  each  containing  a  hundred  extra  rounds,  gas 
mask,  mess  outfit  and  the  steel  helmet,  commonly  known 
as  your  tin  hat. 

SLUM  AND  BEEF  STEW 23 

Josephus 23 

Josephus  Daniels,  Secretary  of  the  Navy  during  the 
war. 

gols 23 

Nickname  for  sailors. 

Brains  of  the  Army 23 

Any  order  apparently  wrong  or  ridiculous  is  generally 
provocative  of  the  soldiers  saying,  "Brains  of  the  Army." 

122 


Thotmes  HI,  (or  Thutmose  or  Thutmosis)  .  .  23 
Of  the  Eighteenth  Dynasty,  who  began  his  reign  about 
1500  B.  c.,  Egypt's  greatest  conqueror,  and  under  whom 
the  Egyptian  Empire  attained  its  largest  extent,  llame- 
ses  II  (the  Great)  of  the  following  Dynasty,  is,  however, 
the  more  generally  known. 

Cyrus'  doughboys  swept  etc 24 

Refers  to  the  passage  of  Cyrus  and  his  great  army 
through  the  Cilician  Gates,  on  his  way  from  his  conquest 
of  Lydia  in  Asia  Minor,  to  his  descent  of  the  Euphrates 
Valley  to  Babylon,  whose  easy  capitulation  in  539 
B.  c.  finally  brought  to  an  end  the  old  glory  of  the  Baby 
lonian  Empire,  which,  after  a  long  period  under  Assyrian 
rule,  had  blossomed  forth  in  a  glorious  recrudescence,  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  Seventh  Century  B.  C.,  under  Nebo- 
polassar  and  his  famous  son  Nebuchadnezzar — and  then 
known  as  the  Neo-Babylonian  Empire,  or,  more  com 
monly,  as  Chaldea.  The  reader  will  doubtless  remember 
that  it  was  through  the  same  passage  in  the  Taurus 
Mountains  that  Ashurbanapal,  le  Grand  Monarque  of 
Assyria  when  at  the  apogee  of  her  power  in  the  Seventh 
Century  B.  C.,  and  also  Alexander  the  Great,  sweeping 
to  his  eastern  conquests,  both  passed. 

Doughboys  is  the  popular  present-day  nickname  for 
infantrymen. 

Sitting  on  the  World 24 

When  the  situation  is  thoroughly  agreeable  and  every 
thing  is  "breaking"  just  right. 

8.  0.  L 24 

Well  known  soldier  expression  which,  elegantly  trans 
lated,  means  being  totally  and  entirely  out  of  luck,  but 
not  to  be  adopted  for  ''polite  conversation."  Remember 
this  admonition. 

MR.    FLY 27 

G.  I.  Cans 27 

Large  high-explosive  shells  of  about  6  inches  diameter 

123 


or  over,  and  made  of  thick  galvanized  iron  or  what  ap 
peared  to  be  such. 

Cooties 28 

Are  pleasant  little  neighbors  in  the  trenches,  due  to 
the  inadequacy  of  bathing  facilities. 

THE  SALVATION  ARMY  WITH  THE  A.  E.  F.      .      .     29 
John  Doe.    Private  Doe 29 

The  designation  of  an  American  soldier,  where  no 
specific  name  is  used,  as,  for  example,  to  fill  in  the  place 
for  a  name  on  a  sample  blank  or  application  of  any  kind. 
Not  used  as  a  popular  nickname  for  the  American  sol 
dier  as  Tommy  Atkins  is  used  for  the  British  soldier. 

A.  E.  F 29 

American  Expeditionary  Forces :  the  title  of  the 
American  troops  in  France  during  the  war. 

SHELL-HOLES 30 

The  "77" 30 

The  typical  artillery  piece  of  the  German  army,  and 
having  a  caliber  of  approximately  three  inches,  roughly 
corresponding  with  the  famous  French  "75,"  though  not 
as  effective,  but  quite  effective  enough. 

FOOD 33 

Salvation 34 

Salvation  Army. 

SONG  OF  THE  VOLUNTEERS  OF  1917 40 

Bayard 40 

The  great  chivalric  hero  and  warrior  of  France  during 
the  reign  of  Francis  I.  The  Chevalier  Bayard  was  killed 
in  northern  Italy  in  1524,  during  the  advance  of  Bour 
bon  at  the  head  of  the  Imperial  forces. 

the  Cid 40 

The   chief   heroic   figure   of    Spain,   who   lived   in   the 

124 


Eleventh  Century,  lighting  ably  against  the  Moorish 
power  until  exiled  by  his  king  in  the  year  1075,  after 
which  he  became  a  free  lance,  sometimes  engaging  in 
battle  the  Infidel  and  sometimes  the  Christian.  He 
died  in  1099,  and,  while  a  very  able  commander,  it  is 
generally  understood  that  most  of  his  great  deeds  are  a 
gorgeous  fabric  of  tradition  rather  than  actual  history. 

ARTILLERY  REGISTERING 44 

The  bursting  of  shrapnel  over  your  trenches,  by  the 
enemy,  in  order  to  get  the  range  for  their  shell-lire  which 
is  to  follow. 

TRUCKS 48 

Toto 49 

A  nickname  for  a  Cootie,  qv. 

Including  nuts,  candy  etc 50 

The  American  soldier  has  a  notoriously  "sweet-tooth," 
and  big  husky  men  positively  gormandize  on  things  sac 
charine,  when  obtainable. 

MADEMOISELLE 51 

The  army  man  pronounces  the  word  "mademoiselle" 
at  full  length,  using  the  most  punctilious  care  to  enun 
ciate  each  and  every  one  of  the  four  syllables.  Whether 
this  is  due  to  the  word  being  foreign  to  many  of  them, 
or  whether  it  is  due  to  their  all-saving  subtle  sense  of 
American  humor,  so  that  it  seems  rather  delicious  to 
call  the  little  French  ladies  by  so  long  and  ponderous  a 
title,  I  really  do  not  know,  but  I  strongly  suspect  that 
it  is  the  latter. 

THE  FIRST  DIVISION 53 

Caesar  had  his  Tenth  Legion,  Napoleon  had  his  Old 
Guard,  and  the  American  Army  during  the  World  War 
had  its  First  Division.  It  might  therefore  not  seem 
entirely  malapropos  to  quote  the  words  of  the  great 
French  general  Mangin.  who  was  the  corps  commander 
125 


of  the  First  Division  of  the  American  Army,  the  famous 
First  Moroccans  of  the  French  Army  and  the  Second 
Division  of  the  American  Army,  at  the  Second  Battle  of 
the  Marne,  that  began  on  July  18th,  1918,  and  was  the 
turning  point  of  the  whole  war.  In  this  great  door 
movement  the  First  Division  was  given  practically  the 
post  of  honor  at  the  hinge  itself,  i.e.,  directly  at 
Soissons,  only  one  division,  the  153rd  French  Infantry 
Division,  being  on  the  inside  of  the  First  Division,  and 
as  it  was  in  this  engagement  that  a  gentleman  of  Teu 
tonic  origin,  operating  a  machine-gun  from  our  extreme 
left  flank,  and  apparently  very  much  irritated  about 
something,  put  a  bullet  in  my  side  and  out  my  back,  it 
is  only  natural  that  the  message  of  Gen.  Mangin  was  of 
interest  to  me,  and  saved,  and  here  quoted  verbatim:  — 

Lauds  Americans  in  Battle. 
General   Mangin   Thanks   Pershing's   Men   for   Brilliant 

Part  in  Drive. 
(By  Associated  Press.) 

With  the  French  Army  in  France,  Aug.  7. — General 
Mangin,  who  was  in  direct  command  of  the  Allied  forces 
in  the  drive  against  the  German  right  flank  south  of 
Soissons,  has  issued  the  following  order  of  the  day 
thanking  the  American  troops  for  their  brilliant  partici 
pation  in  the  battle  which  caused  the  German  retreat 
between  the  Marne  and  the  Aisne : 

"Officers,  non-commissioned  officers  and  soldiers  of  the 
Third  American  Army  Corps: 

"Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  your  French  comrades,  you 
threw  yourselves  into  the  counter-offensive  begxm  on 
July  18th.  You  ran  to  it  like  going  to  a  feast.  Your 
magnificent  dash  upset  and  surprised  the  enemy  and 
your  indomitable  tenacity  stopped  counter-attacks  by 
his  fresh  divisions.  You  have  shown  yourselves  to  be 
worthy  sons  of  your  great  country  and  have  gained  the 
admiration  of  your  brothers  in  arms. 

"Ninety-one  cannon,  7,200  prisoners,  immense  booty 
and  ten  kilometers  (six  and  a  quarter  miles)  of  recon- 
126 


quered  territory  are  your  share  of  the  trophies  of  this 
victory.  Besides  this,  you  have  acquired  a  feeling  of 
your  superiority  over  the  barharian  enemy  against  whom 
the  children  of  liberty  are  fighting.  To  attack  him  is 
to  vanquish  him. 

"American  comrades,  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the 
blood  you  generously  spilled  on  the  soil  of  my  country. 
I  am  proud  of  having  commanded  you  during  such  splen 
did  days,  and  to  have  fought  with  you  for  the  deliver 
ance  of  the  world." 

"The  Stars  and  Stripes,"  the  weekly  paper  of  the  A. 
E.  F.  in  France,  in  giving  a  tabulated  form  of  the  record 
of  the  various  divisions,  and  their  insignia,  which  was 
worn  on  the  shoulder  of  the  left  sleeve,  said  the  follow 
ing  of  the  First  Division: — 

Division  Insignia:  Crimson  figure  "1"  on  khaki  back 
ground,  chosen  because  the  numeral  l'l"  represents  the 
number  of  the  division  and  many  of  its  subsidiary  or 
ganizations.  Also,  as  proudly  claimed,  because  it  was 
the  "First  Division  in  France;  first  in  sector;  first  to 
fire  a  shot  at  the  Germans;  first  to  attack;  first  to  con 
duct  a  raid;  first  to  be  raided;  first  to  capture  prison 
ers;  first  to  inflict  casualties;  first  to  suffer  casualties; 
first  to  be  cited  singly  in  General  Orders;  first  in  the 
number  of  Division,  Corps  and  Army  Commanders  and 
General  Staff  Officers  produced  from  its  personnel." 

To  this  might  have  been  added  that  the  First  Division, 
which  was  a  Regular  Army  division,  and  originally  com 
prised  about  twenty  or  thirty  per  cent  "old  soldiers," 
and  the  rest  of  us  "war  volunteers,"  but  proud  of  being 
"Regulars,"  the  First  Division,  which  consisted  of  the 
16th,  18th,  26th  and  28th  Infantry  Regiments,  the  5th, 
6th  and  7th  Field  Artillery  Regiments,  the  1st  Engineer 
Regiment,  and  a  complement  of  Cavalry,  etc.,  was  the 
division  that  General  Pershing,  the  commander-in- 
chief,  picked  out  to  fill  the  most  vital  positions  on  im 
portant  occasions,  as,  for  example,  when,  from  the 
whole  army,  he  chose  the  First  Division  to  go  into  the 
front  line  just  west  of  Montdidier,  at  the  Battle  of 

127 


Picardy,  to  help  hold  the  very  apex  of  the  huge  Ger 
man  bulge  that  had  swept  southwestward  from  St. 
Quentin  to  Montdidier,  in  the  great  series  of  Hun  drives 
which  started  on  March  21st,  1918.  Again,  it  was  the 
First  Division  that  Pershing  placed  at  Soissons,  at 
virtually  the  hinge  of  the  great  door  movement  in  the 
turning  point  of  the  whole  war,  the  Second  Battle  of 
the  Marne,  as  heretofore  described ;  and  it  was  the 
First  Division  to  which  Pershing  again  gave  the  post 
of  honor  when  the  St.  Mihiel  salient  was  closed,  as  it 
was  this  Division  that  was  placed  on  the  inside  po 
sition  of  the  great  southern  jaw,  just  east  of  Xivray 
and  dangerous  Mont  Sec. 

Casualties  and  kilometers  make  very  interesting  read 
ing,  but  when  a  Commander-in-chief  consistently  and 
persistently  picks  out  one  certain  division  for  the 
most  difficult  and  all-important  positions,  there  is  not 
much  room  for  argumentation. 

Mr.  Page,  in  his  article  in  The  World's  Work,  for 
May,  1919,  in  describing  the  Second  Battle  of  the 
Marne,  tells  how  the  First  Division  went  over  the  top 
with  the  153rd  French  Infantry  Division  on  its  left, 
and  the  famous  First  Moroccan  Division  and  the  Sec 
ond  Division  of  the  American  Army  on  its  right,  and 
how,  in  this  gruelling  engagement,  the  First  Division 
outlasted  both  the  Second  Division  and  the  First  Mo 
roccans,  and  really  also  the  153rd  French  Division  on 
its  left,  as  this  latter  was  obliged  to  get  reinforcements, 
Mr.  Page  recapitulating  the  situation  with  the  follow 
ing  paragraph:  — 

"When  the  division  (the  First  Division)  finally  came 
out  of  the  line  it  had  lost  more  than  7,200  men, 
mostly  in  the  infantry.  The  full  complement  of  infan 
try  in  a  division  is  12,000.  Five  days'  constant  and 
successful  attack  after  a  long  march;  an  advance  of 
more  than  six  and  a  quarter  miles  (ten  kilometers)  ; 
losses  of  at  least  50  per  cent,  of  the  infantry  engaged ; 
keeping  pace  with  the  famous  Moroccan  Division  and 
staying  longer  in  the  fight— all  this  had  demonstrated 

128 


that  the  1st  Division  could  stand  in  any  company." 
In  mentioning  these  facts  there  is  no  desire  on  my  part 
to  pretend  that  this  outfit  single-handed  won  the  war, 
because,  if  1  said  that,  I  would  be  talking  sheer  non 
sense.  The  consensus  of  opinion  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  seems  to  be  that  the  whole  American  Army  lived 
entirely  up  to  expectations,  so  that  any  man  who  was 
in  a  combat  division,  has  good  reason  to  feel  proud  of 
his  own  division,  irrespective  of  what  one  that  may 
have  been.  With  this  little  word  of  explanation  I  feel 
at  liberty  to  quote  the  following  which  appeared  in  the 
Paris  edition  of  The  New  York  Herald:  — 

Prowess  of  Yanks  Compels  Praise  Even  from  Hun, 

(Special  telegram  to  the  Herald.) 

From  Burr  Price. 

With  the  American  Armies. 
Friday. 

From  a  captured  officer  of  the  German  army  comes  a 
remarkable  tribute  to  the  fighting  prowess  of  the  First 
Division  of  the  American  troops,  whose  work  will  go 
down  in  history  as  among  the  most  remarkable  of  the 
present  war. 

He  declared  the  Germans  did  not  believe  the  Americans 
could  produce,  within  rive  years,  a  division  such  as  they 
had  found  the  First  Division  to  be.  The  German,  when 
taken,  had  seen  four  years  of  severe  fighting.  This  is 
what  he  had  to  say  yesterday:  — 

"I  received  orders  to  hold  the  ground  at  all  costs.  The 
American  barrage  advanced  toward  my  position  and 
the  work  of  your  artillery  was  marvelous.  The  bar 
rage  was  so  dense  that  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  move 
out  of  our  dugouts. 

"Following  the  barrage  closely  were  the  troops  of  the 
First  Division.  1  saw  them  forge  ahead  and  knew  that 
all  was  lost.  All  night  I  remained  in  my  dugout,  hop 
ing  vainly  that  something  would  happen  that  would 
permit  me  to  rejoin  my  army.  This  morning  your 
troops  found  me  and  here  I  am,  after  four  years  of  fight 
ing,  a  prisoner. 

129 


"Yesterday,  I  knew  that  the  First  Division  was  op 
posite  us,  and  I  knew  we  would  have  to  put  up  the  hard 
est  fight  of  the  war.  The  First  Division  is  wonderful 
and  the  German  army  knows  it. 

"We  did  not  believe  that  within  five  years  the  Ameri 
cans  could  develop  a  division  such  as  this  First  Division. 
The  work  of  its  infantry  and  artillery  is  worthy  of  the 
best  armies  of  the  world." 

LITTLE  GOLD  CHEVRONS  ON  MY  CUFFS  ....     55 

The  gold  chevrons,  called  "stripes,"  worn  on  the  cuffs 
of  "overseas"  soldiers,  during  the  World  War,  each  one 
on  the  left  cuff  standing  for  six  months'  "overseas"  serv 
ice,  and  each  chevron  on  the  right  cuff  standing  for  a 
wound.  One  wound  chevron  meant  a  wound  or  wounds 
severe  enough  to  take  a  man  back  to  the  hospital,  irre 
spective  of  whether  he  had  one  or  a  dozen  bullets  or 
pieces  of  shell  in  him  on  that  occasion. 

CAPTAIN  BLANKBURG 59 

The  patrol  herein  described  was  what  was  called  a 
"reconnoitering  patrol,"  sent  out  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  gathering  information,  keeping  itself  unknown  to  the 
enemy,  and  not  fighting  unless  actually  attacked. 
"Combat  patrols"  were  sent  out  for  this  latter  purpose. 

INTERRUPTED  CHOW 63 

Buzzy-cart 63 

The  carts  that  were  sent  from  the  company  kitchens, 
which  were  usually  from  six  to  ten  kilometers  back  of 
the  first  line  trenches,  up  to  within  about  two  to  four 
kilometers  of  the  front  line,  where  they  would  stop  at 
designated  points  until  chow  details  from  the  second  line 
came  back  to  them,  to  carry  the  cans  of  slum,  coffee, 
and  the  bread  or  hardtack,  up  to  the  men  in  the  first 
and  second  line.  All  this,  of  course,  was  done  under 
cover  of  darkness,  but  as  the  Germans  had  the  range 
of  all  the  roads,  etc.,  and  knew  at  about  what  time 
the  food  had  to  be  gone  after,  it  meant  that  almost 
every  night  at  least  one  detail  was  shot  to  pieces. 
130 


Dog-tag 66 

Small,  round  metal  disc,  suspended  from  the  nock  by 
a  cord,  and  with  the  soldier's  name,  rank  and  organi 
zation  stamped  thereon,  and  forming  an  identification 
tag. 

THE  GAS-PROOF  MULE 68 

"Stand-to" 69 

In  the  first  and  second  line  trenches  everyone  was 
obliged  to  remain  awake  all  night,  but  at  dawn  each 
man  had  to  take  his  exact  post,  and  be  prepared  to 
repel  any  enemy  attack  that  might  come  over,  as  that 
was  a  favorite  hour  for  doing  so.  This  was  called 
"stand-to." 

INFANTRY  OF  THE  WORLD  WAR 71 

Zero  hour 72 

The  exact  time  at  which  you  start  forward  to  attack. 

A  FIRST-CLASS  PRIVATE 74 

Loot 74 

Abbreviation  for   lieutenant. 

"Sunny  France" 75 

Soldier  sarcasm,  because  he  scarcely  ever  saw  any 
sun  while  in  France,  and,  of  course,  the  majority  had 
never  visited  the  Kiviera,  nor  known  Paris  in  summer 
raiment,  during  normal  peace  times. 

Sitting  Jake 75 

Means  the  same  thing  as  "Sitting  on  the  World,"  i.e., 
everything  salubrious  and  "breaking"  just  right. 

Note        

While  realizing  that  my  personal  affairs  are  of  no 
possible  interest  to  the  reader,  it  would  seem,  however, 
almost  obligatory  for  me  to  do  myself  justice,  and  ex 
plain  that  I  was  quite  willing  to  shoulder  responsibility, 
which  this  poem  might  make  it  appear  I  was  not. 
Hence  the  following  little  anecdote : —During  a  rest 

131 


period  back  from  the  trenches,  which  was  the  only  oc 
casion  when  you  had  time  to  bother  your  head  about 
smaller  things,  several  men  had  applied  for  officers' 
commissions,  so  I  got  some  civilian  letters  of  recom 
mendation,  and  put  in  an  application  to  be  permitted 
to  go  up  for  examination  for  a  commission.  This  ap 
plication  was  forwarded  "approved"  by  my  company 
commander,  together  with  personal  recommendations 
from  my  three  previous  company  commanders.  As  this 
officer  is  the  one  who  sees  you  daily,  his  recommenda 
tion  is,  from  a  military  standpoint,  of  more  value  than 
that  of  a  major-general.  But  in  spite  of  my  applica 
tion  being  forwarded  with  the  approval  of  all  four  of 
the  company  commanders  that  I  had  had  up  to  that 
time,  it  was  disapproved  higher  up  by  someone  who  very 
seldom  could  ever  have  even  seen  me.  But  having  had 
no  thought  or  intention  of  getting  a  commission,  when  I 
entered  the  Army,  and  having  crossed  over  to  Europe  as 
a  civilian,  at  my  own  expense,  in  August,  1917,  to  en 
list  in  the  American  Army  in  France,  which  I  did  on 
September  1st,  1917,  in  Paris,  so  as  to  absolutely  insure 
getting  into  the  trenches,  and  as  at  the  time  of  my  ap 
plication  I  had  already  accomplished  my  purpose,  it  may 
readily  be  discerned  that  the  return  of  my  application 
did  not  perturb  the  habitual  equanimity  of  my  soul,  nor 
cause  me  to  lose  any  of  my  natural  sleep  or  youthful 
charm. 

ONLY  FOR  You 77 

rowdy  or  cad 77 

While  very  often  some  junior,  or  even  senior,  officer 
would  fall  under  this  category,  and  even  worse,  the  ma 
jority  of  them  really  tried  to  give  their  men  a  square 
deal.  If  an  officer  were  a  rough-neck,  snob,  or  as  the 
men  in  the  ranks  would  usually  express  it,  a  ribbon- 
counter  clerk,  it  was  only  quite  natural  that  he  would 
take  cowardly  advantage  of  his  shoulder  straps  to  make 
it  as  miserable  as  possible  for  the  men  under  him,  but 
if  an  officer  were  a  gentleman  in  civilian  life,  the  man 

132 


in  the  ranks  was  sure  to  be  handled  as  a  man  and 
treated  fairly,  so  long  as  he  did  his  military  duty  and 
conducted  himself  as  a  soldier.  Of  this  latter  type,  I  can 
look  back  with  pleasure  on  all  my  company  commanders, 
remembering  especially  men  like  Lt.  Victor  Parks,  Jr., 
and  Capt.  Allen  F.  Kingman,  "officers  and  gentlemen" 
in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  Upon  the  one  or  two 
officers  of  the  other  type  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to 
dwell.  When  once  free  from  contact  with  a  skunk,  one 
simply  bathes,  changes  one's  clothes,  and  promptly  al 
lows  the  odoriferous  memory  to  be  wafted  away  and 
disseminated  in  the  ambient  atmosphere  of  oblivion. 

Silver  bursts  cut 77 

Artillery  flares  at  night  show  red,  but  in  the  early 
dawn  they  appear  against  the  dark  hillsides  like  bursts 
of  silver. 

OLD  FUSEE 80 

Fusee 80 

Soldier  term  for  his  rifle,  the  French  word  "fusil" 
meaning  that  weapon. 

THE  COLORS  OF  BLIGHTY 82 

Because  of  its  brevity,  succinctness  and  expressiveness, 
I  have  used  the  word  Blighty  to  designate  a  military 
hospital,  though  it  was  never  in  really  popular  use  by 
the  American  soldier  for  this  purpose,  and  to  the  British 
soldier  it  simply  meant  going  back  to  England,  but  as 
so  often  Tommy  Atkins  went  back  to  his  Tight  Little 
Island  because  he  was  wounded,  Blighty  frequently 
meant  "hospital." 

WHIN  NmisE  COMES  IN 84 

The  phraseology  and  repertoire  of  the  army  man  must 
not  be  taken  too  seriously,  as  nine-tenths  of  the  time  it 
is  simply  a  safety  valve  for  ebullient  spirits  or  dread  mo 
notony,  and  with  little  or  no  real  harm  back  of  it. 

133 


CHARLIE  CHAPLIN  IN  BLIGHTY 85 

The  famous  "movie"  comedian  of  the  cinema. 

EMBARKATION  HOME 89 

M  P 89 

Military  Police;  soldiers  acting  in  that  capacity. 


THE  END 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

":l9!36f 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 

NON-RENEVJABLE 

JUN  2  4,1993 

f>';7  TV- 
DUE  2  WKS  FROM  UAf 


iKtCEIVED 


,8  1993 


A     000  922  987     3 


